


Declaration of Intent

by Dead_walking



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe Zone, Daryl pov, M/M, Posessive!Rick, Rick POV, Slow Build, Slow Burn, alternating pov, season five, third person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_walking/pseuds/Dead_walking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A truth about survivors: They can no longer define themselves by the things they were forced to throw away. Daryl and Rick find themselves growing closer as they distance themselves from what they needed to leave behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rick holsters his pistol, fingers trailing the length of the handle. _Just in case_ , he reminds himself as he looks down from his porch, automatically sizing up every person that passes by. He wages he wouldn’t even need the pistol if it came down to it. _They’re soft_ , just as Carl said they were and soft doesn’t cut it in this new world order. 

Pulling up a stool, Rick settles himself in a corner of the deck like he thinks he used to do on lazy summer evenings. Floorboards creak as he shifts his weight, tipping the wooden feet as he angles himself against the wall. It's tempting, Rick gives Alexandria that. Temping to lose himself in the comforts of four walls and a door, but Rick isn’t a fool. There's no more security here than there was behind concrete walls. All it takes is one mistake, one miscalculation for everything to crumble around them like dust.

“Goodnight Rick,” someone – Clara? – calls on her way home. Her partner is at her heels, pace slow, body loose like there aren’t walkers prowling the edge of the fence. With smiles that reach their eyes and not a thought about the unmanned watchtower that paints a target over them in bold red letters. Deanna asked him to protect Alexandria and Rick will do that, even if it means taking it. 

Rick tips his head as the women hurry past, watching them as they duck behind a corner _. Protect people_ , Deanna said. _Keep the peace_. He still doesn’t know what he feels when he weaves his arms into navy blue sleeves, but he certainly doesn’t feel like the same man who accepted a sheriff’s deputy badge with a wide smile. No longer has the family that was sitting in the crowd, pictures burned with the rest of their photos in a camp near a quarry. He feels so far removed from the man who stood in the middle of a grocery store and debated cereal choices that he can’t remember debating: honey or cinnamon. 

He can remember shooting a man he didn’t know to save his own. 

_We have a chance here_ , Michonne urged him what feels like milliseconds and a lifetime ago. Shoulder bare of her katana, golden necklace sitting delicately on her collar bone; a stark contrast from the woman who could cut the head of a walker off in one swipe, who will take out an eye to get her revenge. _Carl, Judith, they have a chance here, Rick. But we have to let go. We need to make this work. We don't have to be who we were out there, not anymore_.

A small and inconsequential part of Rick wants to –does – believe her- _we can come back from what we've done. We're not too far gone_. But every time he thinks about giving in, accepting the tumbler of whiskey or leaving his pistol at home, he can smell hot iron and burning flesh. Can hear metal bending and the screams of his people. He remembers the devastation that happens when you trade a gun for a shovel, when you try to come back. Stepping away from the person that kept you alive out there- in the wild - it means people die. Everything you’ve built crumples and Rick’s not playing to lose this time

A truth about survivors: They can no longer define themselves by the things they were forced to throw away.

Holding on is a fool’s game, whether that’s to who you used to be, or to comforts like broken cellphones and book clubs. It prevents you from facing the reality of the situation and there’s no getting out of this one. Rick's lived the temptation, would close his eyes and see a red deck with the blue grill that always smelled like onions. Carl (didn’t know how to hold a gun) always begged to flip the burgers and Lori would bite at her nails worried he would get burned. Rick used to close his eyes and dream about a place like this when he work up to see the dead living. Now when Rick closes his eyes, well, he can still feel the warmth of the blood spreading over his hand. ( _Now what’d you do that for, man_? A different Shane would have asked with the right amount of betrayal in his voice. But that Shane died before Rick woke up in an abandoned hospital.)

Surviving means letting your old life slip through your fingers like dirty lake water. It means watching your back every second and sleeping with an eye open. It’s the curve of a knife and the bite of a bullet. It’s understanding that walkers aren't the only threat anymore, but at least they’re predictable. A smile can easily end with a knife through your gut and Rick’s not throwing his family into the mix until he’s ripped off the wool and is sure he doesn’t see a single pair of fangs. Until then, well, he won’t hesitant to pull at the trigger.  

Rick rests his forearm on his knee, thumb tucked just under his chin. Absentmindedly, his fingers explore his cheek, smooth skin as foreign to him as sleeping in a proper bed. He wasn’t exactly lying when he told Jessie he thought he would never find the time to shave again. The entire truth is that he didn’t see a reason to waste the energy when they were still in the thick of things. It's energy better spent looking for water and shelter. Energy he needed to keep his group together and alive.

And if they’re not all still alive, at least the remaining few are together. Even if they are separated by houses and assigned positions, they're still a team; still working and breathing together. Rick would prefer if everyone remained a finger-snap away from him but he's adjusting to the space between them. Divide and conquer is an age old strategy that brought armies to the ground, but it won't touch Rick's people. His people are capable, after all, each and everyone of them and if something goes down, they’ll be right on top with him. The thought is enough for him to accept separate houses but it's not enough to keep his fingers from twitching every time a door slams. Until he's able to find peace of mind, he'll have to rely on the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans.

Doing tallies becomes just as routine as walking down the streets of Alexandria, checking in on residents and settling disputes: Carol is in the pantry, Abraham working on the wall, Carl at Jessie’s house or in school. Every minute of every day is broken down by duties and time-frames to make sure everyone is accounted for, everyone is safe. He wants to know how long it takes Sasha and Daryl to return from beyond the wall, needs the breakdown of everything Maggie overhears Deanna talking about. Let them be divided, Rick thinks, he’ll still find a way to use it to his advantage.

A sharp click to the left has Rick whipping his head to the side, foot slamming onto the deck for proper traction. Body working on automatic, it’s ready to jump, duck, pull out his gun and shoot at the first sign of trouble. It’s not until he hears Aaron’s voice, soft and jovial – the type of voice you expect from someone who leaves water in the middle of the road for strangers - that he feels his body ease, if not entirely. Rick still can’t wrap his head around the man and the uncertainty puts him on the defensive. Rick wants everything cataloged, stored and labeled so he doesn’t have to give it a second thought. When you’re facing down a threat, there’s no room for second doubts.

It’s only when Aaron’s voice is joined by the familiar, low drawl of their hunter that Rick’s hand relaxes, moves away from his belt and comes to rest at his side again. Daryl doesn’t exactly look cultured, but he’s wearing a long sleeved shirt which is a development Rick’s been unable to track, just like his budding friendship with their benefactor. He angles his head to try to listen to their conversation but can hear nothing but the soft murmurs.  Eventually, Arron lifts his hand towards Daryl, but it stops its trajectory midway. _You ain’t there, yet_ , Rick thinks and he selfishly wants to keep it that way.

They don’t make eye contact as Daryl departs Aaron’s house but Rick knows the hunter feels his gaze like prey. Pulling a cigarette out from his pocket, Daryl doesn’t rush to close the distance between the two houses, no trace of being uncomfortable under Rick’s gaze. The cigarette is dangling from the hunter’s lips when he moves to join him, silently settling himself next to Rick, left leg coming to rest like a triangle against the wall. When he’s comfortable, he strikes a match, watching as the flame flickers and dies after lighting his smoke. Rick breathes in the smell until his core fills with it then audibly exhales, body slouching enough for his arm to bump against Daryl's and rests there.

“Been spending a lot of time with Aaron,” Rick observes. He doesn’t think he means it as an accusation, but maybe he does. He needs Daryl and Carol on his side, especially when everyone else is off playing house. He needs to make sure they are ready to strike, even if it keeps Carol invisible and Daryl ostracized.  If Rick begins to feel what others would call guilt at the thought, well, he justifies it with a survival count. He cocks his head to the side so he can catch Daryl’s eyes.

Daryl’s focus falters for a second but then it’s back on his like a vice grip, steadily building pressure with every second. “Mmh,” Daryl grunts with a flick of his shoulder. “He started taggin’ along when I was out huntin,” he offers, “keeps saying he’s out lookin’ for rabbits but I ain’t ever seen him catch one.”

Rick nods at that, not quite able to picture Aaron taking down a rabbit. “Is that right?”

Daryl nods before taking the cigarette out of his mouth, rolling it in-between his fingers, and watching as the embers fall onto the wooden floor. “Always talks ‘bout how he still feels like an outsider here but he’s givin’ these people the chance to get to know em, guess it makes it easier,” he snorts and shakes his head and Rick wishes that wasn’t the closest Daryl comes to a laugh. “Told him I got nothing to prove.”

Daryl’s proved himself enough as far as Rick’s concerned. If these people don’t see his worth, it’s their loss and he ain’t saying that lightly. Rick’s done more than fine with Daryl in his corner. “You’re not the same,” Rick reassures, “remember that. You have people. You have a family.”

The silence that settles over them in answer enough. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance, one of their main staples when they were trudging through snow packed three feet high. Food’s easier to come by here, Rick has a pantry of dry goods and fruit to his name that will last him the winter. It’s an assurance Rick didn’t think he would be blessed with again.

“He offered me a job the other night,” Daryl says after a beat, biting at the skin on his thumb.

Rick can’t help but raise his eyebrows at that. “Is that why you didn’t take the gun before?”

“You said we should try to make this work,” Daryl counters, taking the final pull of his cigarette. Smoke mixes between them before it disappears into the night. “For the others. S’all I’m tryin’ to do.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not talking about the others right now, Daryl. I’m talking about you."

Daryl slinks down, until he’s sitting with his back resting against the wall. “Got nothing better to do, might as well make myself useful.”

Back at the prison, Daryl and Michonne would stay out for days at a time trying to track down the Governor. They’re not made for sitting idle, Rick gets that. Keeping his voice measured, Rick asks: “And how does Aaron plan on making you useful?” 

“Wants me to recruit with him,” Daryl offers. “Thinks I can tell between good and bad people.” Rick has come to trust Daryl’s judgment like an oath. How many times has he looked to Daryl before making a decision, watching for a slight nod or shake of the head? Something deep within Rick, something primal and dark, isn’t overly keen on someone else moving in on that territory. Daryl is his man, belongs to his family and nobody is moving in on that unless they are directly invited to.  

They’re a team and Rick needs them to remain a team, untouched by people who haven’t seen Daryl take a gun out of Rick’s hand. Who didn’t squint against the dirt and the dust in Woodbury when Rick realized they were down a man. He watches Daryl’s throat as it swallows and is determined to keep him alive and well. “We have to be careful around these people,” Rick warms. “We still don’t know their angle.”

“You don’t got to tell me twice,” he answers and flicks the remains of the Camel over the railing.

“Be careful out there,” Rick says. What he really means is: Don’t die for these people. He doesn’t have to add: come back. He never has to.

 

::

 

Alexandria is roughly the size of a small strip mall. Walking the perimeter takes 30 minutes at best and there ain’t much to watch for except for hesitant smiles and polite waves. Roughly three hundred beams support the fence, which is made out of steal salvaged from the remains of the military operation that must have been overrun the second this entire thing went down. The fences are high enough to deter an unplanned attack, but without gaps to keep watch, there won't be any chance of seeing one coming. A heard could take out the beams and with only one exit, it risks high casualties. 

All that aside, Rick can work with this wall. Every problem, every weakness he finds can be fixed given enough time and manpower. If Deanna agrees to spare able citizens, Rick knows he can train them well enough to get a reliable patrol going day and night, working in shifts so they can still enjoy the leisure that has come with this town. At the very least, it will give them something to fight for, something to want to save. There are too many resources here, too much food and water to let go unguarded. Rick’s already lost one home, he’s not about to lose another. Not with winter coming and a baby to feed. Give people reason enough to fight and they’ll be volunteering to take watch in the tower and that, well, that will give them a fighting chance is someone tries to take what is theirs.

And this is theirs now, if they want it.

Deanna has the right idea here, but she's holding onto the old world. Starting over isn’t going to work when you’re barely holding onto what you got. One coordinated attack is all it will take for everything to crumble. Luck may have kept them sheltered from the world, but when that luck runs out, when the world comes charging through those gates with high powered assault rifles and machetes, people are going to get killed and Rick can’t have that.

It’s that mentality that keeps most of the citizens on edge around them. A constant reminder that they’re not as safe as Deanna promised they were. All it takes is one person, someone getting lost or stumbling upon them when they're out scouting to put his entire operation at risk. Most people ain’t fans of sharing anymore and when they come to take something, they take it all. Except for the handful of families and lone survivors who have lived outside the walls for various stretches of time, most of these folk haven’t learned the importance of tucking a knife into your boot or to keep a measured distance between themselves and anyone they don’t know. They don't know what it takes to stay alive.

Rick feels their eyes on the back of his head as he patrols the streets, weaving through avenues and cul-de-sacs until he reaches the front of the gate and then begins again. His kind makes these people uneasy and they should. At the heart of it, Deanna and her citizens are kind, gentle even, Rick observes like it’s a death sentence. And it is. Gentle gets you a bullet through the head. Gentle makes you a target. Rick doesn’t know the ins and outs of the story, but he knows that Carol and Tyreese were down two children when they reunited with the rest of the group and he’s willing to wager that gentle had its hand in that, too.

Being out there, it strips you of your defenses, skins you raw until you've got no choice but to bare yourself innards and all. Rick's seen the worst of his own and in turn, they've seen him wrecked, mangled like a beaten dog, unable to care for something too vulnerable to care for itself. They’ve weaved their arms together as they waded through the rapids, gripping with white knuckles when someone stumbled. Pushed against splintered doors when a storm raged above them determined to live, determined to keep those doors closed so that no one else would be lost.

You don’t build that type of loyalty behind walls. It happens in the trenches, hearts beating and blood thick on your hands. Deanna says she can read people and maybe she can, but she’s got no way of knowing what Carla will do when someone has a sawed off pointed directly at her chest. Rick knows his people will draw like the best of them, even if they’re outnumbered if it means potentially saving one of their own. Split seconds are the difference between life and death out there and Rick hopes Deanna is ready to put her life on the line to test out her theory.

Rick's passing the second house on Hill Street when he hears someone calling his name. He comes to a stop just as Aaron jogs up to him with an arm outstretched like it’s a regular ol’ Sunday. Manicured lawns and flowers stretch the length of the street, walling them in on both sides, mailboxes pristine like the post is due any day now. ‘Officer,” he says by way of greeting. “Looks like you and Michonne are finding your grooves, that’s good. Town’s never been safer.” The tone is easy, playful even and completely lost on Rick.

Rick’s not so good at this, never was. Lori always pulled him into conversation he had no reason to be in, then threw her arms in the air before they went to bed, _why can’t you let anyone in_? Now more than ever, Rick’s more comfortable drawing a gun than making conversation, but he offers a tight smile all the same.

“Right,” Aaron says with a nod. He rubs his hands together and rocks on his feet before shifting his weight to the left.  “Still getting used to everything. I get it. Took me and Eric a few weeks, too. Hey, at least the uniform looks good on you.” 

There’s no scrutiny with Arron, nothing that suggests he wants to know what happened out there. Rick sees the questions forming when he speaks to some of the inhabitants, watches the words get stuck in their throats when they remember Sasha’s outburst. It’s a story, a reminder of how good they’ve had it and Rick isn’t offering his blood for their amusement. The details, everything that makes Rick and his people complete, that doesn’t get to go up on display. Bob and Tyrese aren’t some campfire stories and Beth doesn’t deserve their pity. Their lives were real, they mattered, and now they flow through Rick’s veins like blood, pumping into his heart and back out again.

Aaron could be the type of person Rick would have welcomed into his fold before the prison, but for now, he’s not ready to do this again. Not ready to let down his defenses, to let someone in when he’s still mourning his losses.  If it were up to him, Aaron would have been left abandoned in the barn where he found them, provisions and weapons taken like the offerings they were. Instead, he’s taking Daryl beyond the wall, where he already almost lost one man to a broken ankle. It’s not something Rick is particularly pleased about.

“Taking Daryl back out there?” He interjects, sucking in his cheeks and scanning the street. This is something Rick can do, focusing on tasks, making sure his people are prepped and safe when they leave the gates.

“Deanna wants us to go out again tomorrow. Just a day trip to an old library. Saw some clothes there a few weeks ago, thought it might be worthwhile to try it again. Deanna should start letting Daryl off on his own soon, he’s good out there, but you know that.” His smile is genuine, encouraging. Rick can’t say he ain’t trying but until Rick gets a better gauge on him, he’s going to watch him like a hawk when he’s with one of his own. “We still haven’t found anyone, but that’s just how it goes. Took me a long time to find your group and here we are. We’ll hit our stride soon.” 

"Yeah, I bet you will."

“He’s a good man,” Aaron says in earnest. “A man like him, he wouldn’t be traveling with the wrong type of people, Rick. You should think about that.”

_One of the good guys_. It’s a hollow memory, nearly drowned out by the sound of a gunshot ringing throughout the hall. Aaron would be surprised what a good man is capable of given the right set of circumstances. He’d be surprised what a good man is able of overlooking if it means keeping up with the comfort he's grown accustomed to. Good men kill, good men end up face first on tarmac.

“Look,” Aaron continues, “I’m just saying, give this place a chance. A real chance. We're good people, too, and we’re making something great together. You can be part of that. You should be part of that."

“Thank you,” Rick says and he's half inclined to mean it. Daryl is a good man and depending on the day, Rick may be one, too. Still, they both have ghosts trailing their every move, pulling at their knees with every step they take. Perspective is the only thing that keeps them from being pulled into the ground, almost forcing them to pat themselves off as they crawl through the bullshit.

Rick’s just about to turn away when he stops himself, turning on his feet until he’s looking directly at Aaron. “How many men have you lost out there?”   _He’s one of the good ones_. It echoes through Rick’s mind like a symphony. Even good men are capable of terrible things and smiling the next morning. 

“Lost?” Aaron asks slowly like he’s unwilling to take the question at face value.  Rick sees the exact moment is hits Aaron, face pinching as he replays whatever happened to him out there. “We lost one man, before Eric started coming out with me. I tried, I mean really tried, Rick, but he didn’t want to fight anymore.”

If Rick wanted to keep score, Aaron’s record would be shit with one man lost and one man injured. Rick knows he can’t tell Daryl what to do, but he can make sure Aaron knows it can’t be like it was before, not when it’s Daryl’s life on the line for this place. “If Daryl’s flare goes off,” Rick says, gently nodding his head, “you better make sure to do more than try. You may not like the consequences if you don’t.”

For his part, Aaron seems unperturbed by the warning. _Good_ , Rick thinks, let these people think they know him. It will be easier to tug the rug from under their feet when the time comes to it.

 

::

 

“We’re staying here.” It was Maggie who said it aloud, not ten minutes into dinner. Rick isn’t their leader, hasn’t been since he set his gun on a table and took on the title of farmer, but their eyes still travel to him when a decision has to be made. Tie breaker Daryl had called him as thorns scratched at their clothing just a few days before Aaron approached them. No, Rick doesn’t govern them but when it comes down to the skinny of it, when the difference between staying on course or verging left might be the difference between life and death, he feels a familiar weight saddle itself back on his shoulders, digging its heals into his shoulder blades.

“We need this place,” she admitted for everyone, “and I don’t want to go back out there.”

Rick’s sitting with his elbows on the table, face propped against interwoven fingers. Around him glasses clink, forks scrape against plates, and the smell of chicken and garlic lingers throughout out the room. It’s not too far off from their first dinner at Hershel’s, when the farm was their only lifeline. But instead of stifled silence, they’re talking about old recipes and soups their mother’s used to make when they were children. Instead of strangers coming together out of necessity, they sit around the table like a family. And right now, his family is looking at him with bated breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.

There's promise here, just like there was promise in the prison's soil, but Rick’s not ready to let go of his skepticism. Given time, maybe this place will come to change that, but the reality is that he’s going to have to change this place. The more he stays here, the more he learns about his new neighbors, the more he believes that this way of living just isn’t in the cards anymore. The only question is how to make the old residents know that.  

The thing is, this entire thing, it ain’t only about him anymore. Looking around the room, he sees his people. People that he’s bled for, people he’s willing to lay down his life for if it means giving them the chance of another day. And right now, his people want to stay. Want the chance of making a life here and that ain’t Rick’s decision anymore. What can be Rick’s decision though, is making sure they stay here even if the Alexandrians want them out. Rick locks eyes with Carol as he’s making his way across the room and she gives him a knowing smile.

“Is that what ya’ll want?” Rick asks, dropping his hands onto the table. “Ya’ll want to stay here?”

The nods are almost instantaneous.

“Well, then, it looks like we’re staying.”

::

 

Dirt billows as Rick kicks at the ground, boot digging into the earth. He squints his eyes against the sun, thankful that the worst of the heat is behind them. With luck, they’ll make this arrangement work through winter. If not, well, they’ll make it work regardless. Even if they don’t take the town, there are enough abandoned houses in the area that seem safe enough. As long as they are fortified and stored enough food and water, they could make it here. He turns to take in the abandoned house that has become their meeting point. It’s clear of walkers today, which buys them additional time together. Since they’ve accepted their positions, it’s been increasingly difficult finding time to meet away from Alexandria. It’s been especially difficult with Daryl, as recruiting keeps him away from the compound for days on end. Even when he is back, the citizens still watch his every move like he’s some kind of rabid dog, too unwieldy and unpredictable to be kept in the house.  

Rick watches as Daryl stalks around the perimeter, always making sure to keep part of his body turned towards the woods, listening for the slightest snap of a twig that would signal someone coming their way. As lookouts go, Rick reckons Daryl is one of the finest. Years ago, Rick would be right there with the Alexandrians, writing Daryl off as a lost cause, too dangerous to keep around the fire. Now, well, Rick's life isn’t the only one owed to the hunter. A low thump draws his attention to Carol, slowly inspecting the debris pile just feet away from the house. Even with three sets of eyes, they still can’t find any clues as to who might have taken the gun or when. At best, it’s stored and locked with the other weapons in Alexandria, at worst, it’s part of a hidden arsenal and that puts Rick on edge.

Unsurprisingly, Carol comes out empty handed. She moves to prop her shoulder against the paneling, weight distributing to her right. She’s still holding her right arm tightly against her ribcage, wincing if she moves it too quickly. Part of him doesn’t think the show she put on when relinquishing her weapon was a complete charade, but he keeps that observation to himself. Carol’s the reason they escaped Terminus and if that means having to carry a bit of extra weight, they all owe her enough to do exactly that. He shakes the thought away as he looks back to the Daryl. Thinking about Carol’s shoulder inevitably leads to thinking about Beth and he doesn’t have that in him right now.

“Maybe it wasn’t someone from Alexandria,” Carol says when the silence starts stretching on too long. “Maybe it was another group passing through. Saw the house and stopped to see if they could find something. It’s what we would do.”

Rick’s fingers trace the inside of his belt, clicking his tongue. “No,” he says, “No, if they found this place, they would have found Alexandria. You really think someone would have just kept on walking after finding something like that?”

“Could have been scouting for another group,” Daryl offers as he crouches next to the walker they killed days ago. The smell is something fierce, but it doesn’t stop the hunter from pulling at the clothes until the upper body is lifted off the ground. Even with the rotting flesh sitting out in the sun, the mark on the forehead is still prominent, a bold ‘W.’ “Stumbled ‘cross a few others when I was out with Aaron,” Daryl says as he moves his head just slightly to view the mark from another angle. “Didn’t think much of it ‘till I remembered this asshole.” Allowing the body to drop back to the ground, Daryl reconvenes next to Rick, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “Someone else is out there, just haven’t found them yet, is all.”

“Think it’s a warning?” Carol asks, soft voice matching her floral undershirt. It’s easy to see why Deanna misjudged her. It’s another ace in the hole that may keep them alive if it comes down to it.  

“You don’t just carve up a walked an’ let em go for nothing,” Daryl answers. “Gotta be a sick sonnabitch.”

Muscles in Rick’s back start constricting as he continues looking at the ‘w.’ “It’s not a warning.” You don’t have to be overly imaginative to figure that letting walkers loose is nothing short of a threat. As far as Rick’s concerned, if Daryl is right and someone is intentionally letting these things go, the mark is nothing sort of a declaration of intent. Warnings are signs, tree logs sharpened and ready. Clear indications that you should turn back because once you cross the threshold, there’s no telling what you’re bound to encounter. Using walkers as walking billboards, that’s letting out the hellhounds.  Helping to clear an area whether by force of terror before you take it.

No, this ain’t no warning, this, this is the first sign of war.

Carol crosses her arms against her chest, looking at Daryl to Rick respectively. “Makes sense doesn’t it?” she asks. “Really think we’re the first people they encountered who have had guns? Could have let us go and we would have never known anyone was there. Aaron made a choice when he approached us.”

“More like a gamble,” Rick says turning away from the walker.

“If Deanna knows about these people, it seems like it’s a gamble she had no choice but to take,” Carol continues. “Most of the citizens don’t know how to defend themselves, let alone take a life. They’re sitting ducks.” 

Rick pulls at the skin just above his adam’s-apple as bits of himself stir back awake. Rick was a damn good sheriff, with gut intuition playing into his long life span, and right now, gut intuition says there’s something here. Smart people – people who want to live – don’t allow outsiders into their gates with guns drawn. Not unless they’re desperate. _You’re the type of man I want on my side._ The open arms, the parties, integrating his people into the very fabric of Alexandria  _\- Rick and his people are part of this community now_ – Deanne was making her move, insuring her survival by offering herself and her people to another set of wolves. _Just in case_ , Rick thinks, and he can’t fault her for it.

“She wants us to fight,” Rick says with a nod, “we can do that. But when we finish, when we win, Alexandria isn’t going to be theirs anymore. Our blood, our town.”

He feels Daryl’s gaze on him and looks over his shoulder to meet it dead on. Nothing but support is written on the hunter’s face and it’s enough to straighten Rick’s shoulders. His people want to stay in Alexandria and Deanna wants protection, Rick is more than willing to comply. _You're the type of man I want on my side,_ Deanna had said and Rick's ready to show her why she was right.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl steps over a fallen tree, briefly looking over his shoulder to make sure Aaron is keeping pace. Both the bike n' the jeep were ditched thirty miles south of the compound, hidden in the dip of a valley just shy of the road. After throwing fallen leaves n' pine needles on both vehicles, the risk of leaving them behind was reduced enough to set Daryl at ease. Even if things do go south, they’re close enough to high tail it back on foot if they have to. Daryl’s been faced with greater distances in the past n' came out just fine.

They followed a dirt bike path that ran parallel to the road for the majority of their walk, using the leaves for cover. Daryl gauged they were about another mile out on foot when Aaron started insisting they head back onto the road _. Look, not that I don’t love being hit in the face by vines as much as the next man, but I’m telling you, it’s safe out here. I haven’t seen anyone around these parts since I started scouting._

Almost grudgingly, Daryl relented to Aaron’s request, keeping an ear to the woods n' looking for any sign that the road has been recently disturbed. For his part, Aaron appeared to be telling the truth. There hasn’t been a trace of other survivors since they left the compound. No tracks or tire marks, no signs of camp, or discarded gear. Nothing to suggest that someone is lurking in the woods, marking up walkers n' setting em free like hound dogs. If this shit keeps up then maybe Deanna wasn’t lying when she said they were lucky; tucked away in their bubble as the rest of the world went at each other like angry alley cats. 

So far, the biggest threat out here has been the damn walkers bunching together like pack animals. Picking off the smaller groups as they head towards their destination, Daryl makes sure to keep count of the ones they let shamble away. Maybe he’ll track them down later with Rick or Glenn, get em while they’re small n' easy to take down, but he sure as hell ain’t about to risk his own hide on someone untested. He shook his head _no_ before Aaron could go after the last group, ditching them when they were still ducking under tree branches n' stepping through puddles. Mud from the puddles is still caked onto his boots like it belongs there; let the others shower n' dress up in their ridiculous getups, Daryl’s perfectly fine out here, always has been.

When he was younger, before he lost his ma to a house fire, he n' Merle would explore the dense woods behind their house, sometimes walking for hours until they reached the wealthier sections of the county. Every which way they looked there were two car garages n' fences that weren't splintered n' cracked down the middle from old practice sessions. Merle would spit on the sidewalk n' run his mouth, saying: _That’s the difference between them n' us, little brotha. They ain’t know how to care for themselves outside of buyin’ fancy cars n' slippin it to the maid when the misses is out._ Would say they should come back when it was dark, take away their fancy watches that made them think they were better than the likes of them. All that taking their watches ever got Merle was another stretch in juvie. 

"Just up there," Aaron says, dragging his feet through Daryl’s memory until it pixilates into a cloud of dust. He cups his hand over his eyes n' points, looking over to make sure Daryl sees it. If he squints, Daryl can vaguely see a support beam sticking out from overgrown leaves, not a few hundred feet away.

Daryl grunts in acknowledgment, following up with: “Let’s get on with it.” He lowers his crossbow n' walks forward, not exactly expecting to find survivors. 

They walk in unison towards the remains of the library, keeping their footsteps soft. The sky is blue above them, wind rustling the leaves along the side of the road. Puffs of air float after every deep breath, following Daryl n' Aaron as they make their way up the hill. It will be cold soon though making it to another winter doesn't necessarily feel like a victory. Come spring, when the grass is thawing n' game don't come half-starved when it comes at all, then maybe Daryl will reach for a celebratory swig of whiskey.

"When's the last time you rolled through here?" Daryl asks, keeping his attention on his surroundings, crossbow at the ready next to his thigh. He’s never been comfortable on the open road, always preferring to duck into the brush, following abandoned hunting trails. Ain’t no security out here, hideouts on both sides of them like they’re a walking offering.

"It's hard to remember exactly," Aaron responds, turning his head to check their flank. "I would say a few weeks ago but I only took a peak. Eric was always antsy to get back whenever we were out here for long,” he smiles down at his feet n' then looks back up again. “Honestly, I don’t think he ever liked being out here but I guess I can’t blame him for that. Not everyone’s cut out for it, that’s why I’m happy we found Alexandria.”

“S’why they make ya’ll scouts then?" Daryl ain’t one for conversation, but he finds himself asking all the same. ‘Sides, if there is another group stalking their perimeter, Aaron would be the best person to question about it.  

“Volunteered,” Aaron answers with a shrug, “myself, anyway. I remember I was standing at my sink cleaning after dinner and I just – I don’t know. I just couldn’t handle it. Going from running for your life to standing in a kitchen I used to read about in _Better Homes and Gardens_. I think Eric was just scared to get left behind, or wanted to make sure nothing happened to me while I was out here.” He shakes his head n' runs a hand through his hair, not exactly comfortable with the memory. Daryl gets it, not everything's worth a second run through. “And he’s the one who ended up hurt.”

Daryl doesn't press after that, giving Aaron the choice of whether he wants to share and from the silence that follows, Daryl gathers he don't. They continue on in focused silence until they reach the peak of the hill, library just to the left of them. It sits on the outskirts of another town that never saw this coming. With every gust of wind, chains from a broken swing jingle, amplifying the silence. Further in, cars clog the streets, likely abandoned when people still didn’t know what they were running from. Daryl eases his grip on the Stryker as his eyes jump from house to house, car to debris filling the street. 

"Come on," Aaron says and Daryl steps towards him. There's a crunch and he looks down to see a sign, dusted over and rusted through at the corners. Black outlines make up the figure of a child, arms and legs spread out in a run – **careful, children playing**.  Daryl can make out the traces of a smile, spray-painted on and oddly flat now. He doesn’t pause like he thinks Aaron might of if he’d been the one to look down. There’s no use in thinking ‘bout the ones who didn’t make it. They’ve lost enough of their own to know that sometimes, shit just happens and there’s nothing to do ‘bout it ‘cept keep on swinging. 

 _We’re living in even times now, brotha_ , Merle said when they were searching through cupboards of houses like this. Before they found the Atlanta camp, when Rick was still the law and Shane was staking  claim on something that he would lose to a knife on a cold night. _Nothing good or bad happenin,’ just n’ even ground fur the taking_. Looking back towards the town, Daryl shakes his head. Nah, this ain’t close to an even playing field. Aaron nudges him in the shoulder then, motioning with his head that they should move to the curb.

“There’s a door to the side that was open last time," he says. "I think the hinges were broken so it should still be good."

Daryl nods, letting Aaron take lead. There ain’t anything tight in his step, no obvious tension in the way he holds his gun, arm slightly slack at his side. He may be waiting to pull the trigger, but he’s not outright expecting to, at least not on something that’s not already dead. It’s the way his pa used to walk before they caught wind of a deer, muscles at the ready in case case a squirrel or a bird strayed into their line of sight, but they weren’t the prize, they weren’t what they were there for. The more time they spend out here, the more it’s looking like Aaron is as much in the dark as they are. If Rick's right about Deanna, she’s been picky ‘bout who received the information.

Aaron is waiting near the entrance, back pressed up to the chain link fence separating the street from the library's yard when Daryl catches up to him. Damn swing continues to wail as it sways tempting  Daryl to shoot at the chain until it all comes crashing to the ground. Outside the chains, nothing stirs to the sides of them n' if there’s someone in the building, they’re certainly being quiet about it. With a glance his way, Aaron starts towards the building, only coming to a stop because Daryl snaps his fingers behind him.

“Hold up,” he says, shouldering his crossbow n' jumping the small fence to the yard. For the most part, the larger structures have largely been left untouched, ‘cept for some wear n' tear from the elements. Daryl does a straight shot for the slide, grabbing a tricycle that’s been pushed up against the steps. After spinning the wheels to see if they turn, he walks back towards Aaron. “Here, take this,” he instructs before jumping over the fence again.

“Sweet ride, didn't know you were in to pink.” 

“Shut up,” Daryl responds, grabbing the tricycle from him. He makes it a point to ignore the stupid smile that spreads across his face. He agreed to stay at Alexandria because it’s best for the damn kids. Figures if he’s going to suffer the place he might as well make it as normal for them as possible. He places the tricycle next to the side door, opened as Aaron said it would be. When Aaron moves to enter, Daryl holds up a hand, indicating for him to wait. Pressing his back against the wall, he taps three times against the steel door, head tilted to catch any sound coming from inside. It's not until he repeats himself that he gives Aaron the okay to head inside.

Five rooms make up the library, layout largely open. Rotten books are scattered around the room, most of ‘em water logged from storm water that must of gotten in through the cracks in the ceiling. Clusters of bright yellow paint still cling to the wall like moss. Daryl brushes past the details, focusing in on a corner where stacks have been moved to create a barrier. “Someone’s been through here,” he says, kicking at the clothes with his feet, “but it looks like they left a while ago.” He briefly scans for any markings that would link this place to the walkers they found, but doesn't see anything 'crept for torn magazines n' stickers that line what was probably the kid's section.    

Aaron scratches the back of his neck as he approaches Daryl, shaking his head slowly. “I knew it was a long shot, but I’ll sleep better now that we’ve looked,” he says. “Think we should take a look around the houses? Maybe whoever lived here move into one?  We can stay near the cars and listen before we head in."

“Might as well,” Daryl responds, taking a final sweep of the place. If there was anything here it looks like it packed up with the squatters.

 

::

 

Aaron is setting up the scanner when a groan emerges from the front seat of a sedan. It’s quickly followed by an arm slamming against the window, the other probably cut off when it was trying to squeeze out of the seat belt. By the looks of it, the walker must of been here a damn long time, cheeks and mouth just about rotted away. Half lidded eyes watch them as Aaron hesitates with the headphones, its fingers slowly dragging down the window like it has a chance. Everything about the thing says it’s wasting away, likely to starve off before winter sets in.

"Poor bastard,” Aaron mutters as he lowers his headphones n' lifts his gun, aiming it directly at the walker’s head. Daryl cocks his head to look at him, lips tight. Alexandria’s doing alright s’far as ammunition is concerned, but wasting it on nearly dead walkers don’t seem exactly economical. “Eric and I have a rule,” Aaron says without being prompted. "We don’t leave them like this, not when they didn’t have a fighting chance." It reminds Daryl of stumbling past a campsite in the dark; _Arrow for an answer_.

“They're your bullets,” Daryl responds, moving towards another car. He’s trying to open the back seat of a jeep when the shot goes off n' car alarm starts hollering.

Moans are already starting to reverberate off the sides of walls as Daryl whips around on his heels, already counting the damn walkers heading their way. “Shit,” he hears Aaron snap as he reaches through the broken window to pull the walker off of the horn. 

“We gotta move,” Daryl orders, looking towards the houses as walkers start towards the source of the noise, falling down steps but continuing to crawl towards them. Grabbing Aaron’s arm, he leads them towards the road, hoping to duck back into the woods n' lose them in the brush. He stops short when he notices more walkers coming at them from the trees, cursing himself for not taking more out when they were walking here.

“The library,” Aaron whispers, voice rushed n' low. It’s not optimal, but it gives them the best chance of slipping the walkers without having to put up too much of a fight. Aaron bumps into him to get him moving, crouching n' running towards the open door. Daryl looks back towards the walkers approaching them from the woods, trying to catch a glimpse of an opening they can push themselves through. After a few more seconds of looking, he’s forced to run after Aaron n' enter the building.

It requires their combined weight to shut the door, broken hinge fighting until it snaps under the pressure. As soon as the door is closed, they split up to find heavier objects to prop against the door. The thuds multiply as they work, rocking the door as more pile onto the other side. They're determined sonsofbitches, Daryl will give them that.

"What do we do?" Aaron asks, voice breathless as he looks widely over the room.

"Help me grab this," Daryl says, already pulling at one of the fallen shelving units. From an early age, Daryl learned not to waste any time on hope. Hope didn’t make his pa stop drinking and it sure and hell won’t get them outta this situation. The only thing Daryl believed in was doing things and right now, the only thing to do was stack the hell outta the door to keep the walkers from coming inside. "They haven't eaten in a while," he says, voice straining with the weigh. "This'll hold em off for a while. Give us some time to figure somethin’ else out."

His feet part, heels digging into the molding carpet as he readies himself to lift again. His left foot pushes back until it taps another shelving unit, papers and books slowly sliding off and hitting the floor. It happens in a second then, the hand that grabs him by the ankle, fingers already trying to burrow themselves into his flesh like parasites. It's frail enough to kick off with one blow, but he loses his balance in the process, falling back until his ass hits the floor. The flash of pain in his arm barely registers as he pulls out his knife and stabs the ugly mother fucker through the eye. So much for the squatters leavin’.

He’s still trying to process the pain when Aaron drops to his knees next to him. "Jesus," he says, wide eyed as he looks from the now still walker to Daryl’s hand. “This place looked clear, I’m so – shit, that’s a lot of blood. Give me your hand.” He starts taking deep, measured breathes, steadying himself more than steadying Daryl. “Alright,” he continues, “It’s okay, we’ll get this patched up and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

Daryl moves just as Aaron reaches for his hand, pulling it away from his prying fingers. "It ain't nothing," he snaps, pulling out his bandana to wrap around the wound.  Even without getting a good, he knows the cut is deep, steel slicing through his skin like it was paper. "They’re getting in," he snaps, using his mouth to finish off the bandage.

"We need a plan b and it needs to be now,” Aaron responds as their blockade slowly starts being pushed back.  

Daryl jumps to his feet and beings pacing, arm burning like hell-fire.  “Alright,” he says, weighing out their options. “Let’s go through the yard, stay low so the mother fuckers don’t see us. Fence should hold ‘em back a bit if they do.”

“I’ll break a window,” Aaron says, running to a back room. With a final check to make sure the yard is clear, they jump out the window n' head towards the woods behind the library.

::

“Sorry about the tricycle,” Aaron says as they make their way through the woods, twisting n' wedging themselves through tree trucks. “She would have liked it.”

Daryl looks at him from the side of his eye, chewing on the onside of his lip to keep himself from shouting: _What the hell do you know?_ He can’t quite place the anger that has his shoulders pulled tight enough to snap like an overdrawn string, but he knows that if he doesn’t put some distance between himself n' Aaron, he’s going to lash out like a cornered cougar. The fence kept the walkers away as they ditched the library, but avoiding them all took them miles off course. By the looks of it, they’ll both be spending the night in the woods n' the last thing Daryl needs is Aaron stalking off in a huff.

“That looked bad,” Aaron says, intentionally testing Daryl’s patience. He quickens his pace so he’s walking in time with Daryl. “Maybe we should slow down, take a better look at it.”

Daryl grunts, moving himself away from Aaron. “I had worse,” he says, monotone, ducking to the left until he makes his way around Aaron n' continues on his path. He doesn’t mention that worse was sitting in the middle of a forked road, spent from a night of running after a black car, or walking out of the brush to see Rick with a gun to the head, the kid held down kickin' n' screaming. This thing on his arm, nah, it ain't nuthin' to think about.  

"Look," Aaron says finally, voice still shaky with residual nerves. "Just give me something to get my mind off what happened back there, alright? Besides, if you die of infection, Rick will put my head on a spike and then Alexandria will be down two scouts."

“Fine,” Daryl eventually snaps, throwing up his arms, “if it’ll stop your damn nagging, get on with it then.” Daryl’s breathing harder than he means to, trying to push away the anger so he can keep his head straight.

Aaron unties the bandanna, pausing slightly when Daryl inhales sharply, reflexes jerking his hand away. Nerves still on edge, Aaron jumps at the movement, shoulders whipping themselves back like he scorched himself on a flame. Daryl keeps his eyes steady, grunting deep in his throat for Aaron to get on with it when they settle themselves. Cracking his fingers, Aaron reaches back towards the bandanna, undoing the knot without tugging at it too harshly. Daryl drops his gaze as soon as Aaron meets it. 

“I get it,” Aaron says n' Daryl sucks in a breath to stop himself from arguing with him, “but we’re going to be covering a lot of ground and we’re bound to run into things she’ll like. And if we don’t, we can always come back.” Aaron opens his bag n' begins shuffling through it until he finds a small first aid kit n' some water. “He’s lucky to have you,” Aaron offers, pouring water over the cut to wipe the blood away. Daryl flinches but Aaron pushes him through it. “I’ve run into my fair share of people since I started recruiting and what the two of you have, it’s rare.” Daryl feels Aaron’s eyes back on him but refuses to look. Instead, he focuses on Aaron’s hands as they take out butterfly bandages n' seals the wound together. “Rick – his family, they care about you Daryl, with or without gifts. There,” he says, clearly satisfied with his work.  “This should hold until we get you back to Pete and if I’m lucky, will hopefully placate Rick.”

Daryl is plenty used to people looking at him with misguided interest, dissecting him like some kind of science project; tearing away pieces of him until he's not a person but a set of fucking assumptions. Torn leaves - _trailer trash_ ; scars lining his back - _well, his papa musta beaten him, so the alcohol rolling off his tongue shouldn’t surprise anyone_. _Maybe if he bothered finishing school, controlled his anger, got help, then he could of made something of himself, but really, who's surprised that he's just next in a long line of fuck ups._

Thing about Daryl, he's not in the business of correcting people. Never cared enough about anyone to put them in their place or explain himself. Has always been more likely to turn around a flick ‘em off, tell them to fuck themselves because they don’t know shit, especially not about him. People can have their assumptions, hell; he may even play into them if his day is bad enough because they’re worth shit in the end. So he doesn't take the bait. Doesn't nod his head or say that he cares about Rick, too, because he knows that’s what Aaron is getting at, poking and prodding until his curiosity is satisfied. Well, fuck that.

Thing is, even Daryl doesn’t know entirely what he means by it. He calls Rick brother, but there’s nothing that ties the way he feels about Rick Grimes to the way he felt ‘bout Merle. Hell, he was just about ready to leave Merle in the woods to go back to Rick n' Merle was _blood_.  This… thing between them, it’s new territory that he’s been walking the outskirts of since the prison. Observing from a distance because Daryl ain’t one to walk in blind. He’s still testing the weight of Rick’s arm when it settles against him, trying to make sense of the way his body jumps to alert when he turns to see Rick’ gaze locked onto him from a distance.

“What is that?” Aaron suddenly asks, moving his head to the left n'staring until Daryl doesn’t have a choice but to look.  Aaron is the first to stand, walking towards a clearing with deliberate, slow steps. The first thing Daryl notices when he approaches are the limbs, chopped up n' scattered like discarded toys, left behind for something better, more interesting. He’s seen this before, bodies torn apart n' forgotten. Almost like he’s on automatic, Aaron brings out his camera n' takes a single photo, letting the camera rest in his lap when he’s finished.

“Been seeing them around more n' more,” Daryl offers but knows it’s not much of an answer.

“There have been more of these?” He asks, genuinely surprised. “What do you think they are?”

“Dunno, but I doubt they’re good.”

Aaron stuffs his camera back into his pack, lips drawn in tight. His brows furrow together as he weaves his arms through the straps, looking around like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. “We should get back,” he says slowly, keeping his eyes on the limbs until they are out of the clearing.

 

::

 

 

The first thing Glenn says to him is that it’s not that serious. “Everyone is fine,” he continues, throwing up a steady hand, “it was just an accident, nothing to get worked up over.” Still, Rick feels the hair on the back of his neck stand because with Sasha returning from outside of the gate not two hours ago, that leaves one person unaccounted for and it’s not someone Rick is particularly keen on losing. Glenn can throw all the assurances he wants Rick’s way, but until Rick has concrete proof- and he’s talking about a pulse and a steady intake of breath- he’s not about to sit around and wait for an update.

It’s not soon after that he’s taking the steps two at a time until he’s on the second floor of their house, opening Daryl’s door without bothering to knock. Living on top of each other has created its own set of uncomfortable situations, mainly with Glenn and Maggie, but Rick’s stumbled upon Carl, too, and it’s never prevented them from looking each other in the eye the next morning.  With Daryl being as elusive as he is, Rick reckons he’s got nothing to worry about barging in unannounced. 

He finds Daryl standing with his side against the wall, lazily looking out the window that faces the front of their home, though he’d be surprised if Daryl ever referred to it as such. A flush threatens to turn his cheeks strawberry red when he surmises that Daryl probably saw him coming up the stairs like flood water was nipping at his heels. It wouldn’t be the first time his concern would be the cause of a joke.

“How bad is it?” he asks, honing in on the hospital white bandage. 

“Had worse,” Daryl says with a shrug, seemingly not inclined to elaborate. Rick needs to fight the memory of watching Daryl being thrown into a car before being kicked to the ground. Walking into the clearing like the proverbial lamb, willing their captors to take his blood instead of theirs. This is the same man Rick used to keep one eye on like his life depended on it and maybe it did. He likes to think that if push came to shove, Daryl wouldn't have pulled a knife if an appropriate moment presented itself, but Rick isn’t exactly absolved of guilt either. He meant it when he had his Colt pointed at Daryl's temple, willing Daryl to push just a fraction of an inch too far so that he could pull the trigger in good conscience.  Merle had already set a precedent for the Dixons and Rick's patience for them hadn't replenished itself enough to spare the youngest Dixon if it came down to it. It was a time when he called another man brother and he was too naive to see that he got the equation all wrong. 

Rick shoves the memory aside as he approaches the hunter, seeing no reason to dwell on who they used to be. All that matters is who they are now and right now, there isn’t a man in the world worthy of taking Daryl’s place at his side. Coming to a stop just shy of the hunter, Rick doesn't hide the way his eyes scan Daryl's body, looking for any sign of another injury. Rick knows well enough that Daryl could be hiding bruised ribs just as easily as not, walking off injuries that had Rick floored after his confrontation with the Governor.

Daryl doesn't close himself off from the scrutiny, like he would with most other people. Just stands his ground as Rick's gaze travels plains of his body ‘til Rick's well and sure that Daryl made it back in once piece. 

"Aaron told me about the tricycle," he says after he's satisfied, moving his head to make sure he catches Daryl's eyes. His smile is genuine and soft as he puts his hand on the slope of Daryl's shoulder and lets it stay there, "Thank you." His thumb brushes over a collar bone, solid and real underneath him.

A wound that's still healing: there were moments when Daryl was more of a father than Rick was able to be; jumping on his motorcycle in search of formula when Rick couldn't pick himself up from concrete and when he finally did find the strength to peel himself off of the floor, he wanted an axe in his hand instead of a bottle. 

 _Your head wasn't right, ain't anything else for it_ , Daryl said, brushing off his actions like it was just something they did for each other. And the hell of the thing is, it is. Rick regrets not noticing it before he did. Regrets allowing Lori’s worried hand wrapping around Carl during one of Daryl’s earlier outbursts to blind him to Daryl Dixon’s worth; to push Daryl away instead of bring him in close because that’s where he belonged. Even now, when he’s off scouting for recruits, Rick’s daughter stays in the forefront of his mind and Rick feels himself swell with gratitude.

His thumb continues its path across Daryl’s collar bone, breath slowly quickening its pace. Rick wanted proof that Daryl was okay and now his hand literally moves with it, riding every inhale and exhale like it’s the only damn thing that matters. He watches the lazy swing of his finger, back and forth like a pendulum, fabric smoothing with every swipe. There should be words, Rick knows that. He should be saying something but he’s lost in the awareness of heat emitting from his palm. He’s not surprised when he looks up to see Daryl watching him like a hawk, body slowly stiffening when neither breaks the stare.

Rick drops his arm then, turning around to give them both space. "Don't recall hearing about any new arrivals," he says after clearing his throat. With nothing else to focus on, he looks towards the floor as he settles himself against the opposite wall, breathing still faster than normal.  

"Cuz there ain't any," Daryl responds easily enough. He pushes himself away from the window and slinks onto the bed, cracking his neck like a dog shaking off tension. Grabbing his crossbow, he starts inspecting the bolts, one by one until there’s a small pile resting just to the left of him.

 “See anything out there?” he asks. He's thinking about the threat now, mentally prepping himself to go to war when the last one still tastes bitter in his mouth.

Daryl nods his head no. “Found another body,” he says, twirling a bolt in his fingers. “Arms and legs chopped up and dumped.”

“Where?”

“’Bout thirty miles out or so,” Daryl responds. “We’re gonna head back out soon. Figure it’s the best place to start lookin.”

"Just you and Aaron? You sure that's a good idea?" Rick remembers how close Daryl and Michonne became when they were out in the wild for days on end, tracking down the Governor while Rick pulled at weeds in the safety of the yard. Would hear them in the hall as they swapped stories about fleas and made jokes lost on Rick. He feels the coils in his stomach tighten when he imagines Aaron standing beside Daryl instead of Michonne.  

"He knows how to handle himself n' he's got a feel for the land,” Daryl says and it’s sound reason. Still Rick doesn’t like the thought of putting Daryl’s life in Aaron’s hands, but that’s not his choice to make. He’s not the leader of their group and he certainly doesn’t lead Daryl, he just hopes their trust doesn’t backfire.

“Alright,” Rick says with a nod, “I trust your judgment.”  He doesn’t miss the way Daryl’s chin picks up at the statement and he certainly doesn’t miss the way his body exhales, physically releasing the pressure that fills his stomach every time he thinks about everything that was denied to Daryl.

He excuses himself after that, walking down the stairs and into the street. He takes a deep breath and counts to seven before letting it out. He’s not due for his shift but decides to walk to perimeter, regardless. Rick thinks back to his thumb on Daryl’s collar bone, wishing there was a book on how to decipher Dixon facial expressions. Rick can be a fool, but he certainly ain’t dumb. What happened in there was palpable, now he just needs to figure out what to do with it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing that thing where I doubt every word I put to paper. Regardless, here's the second chapter. A little more rickyl and for everyone who may be reading this that isn't into the ship, it's going to start getting pretty shippy from here on out. The next chapters will also contain spoilers for the last two episodes of the season, so stay away if you haven't watched those!


	3. Chapter 3

Rick stops just shy of the kitchen, teeth barely puncturing an apple. Morning laziness is still clinging to his muscles, bare feet chill on the polished wooden floor. On Michonne’s insistence, Rick started keeping his boots near the front door, away from his bed where they could be slipped on in second flat. She called it assimilating, Rick calls it a liability. It took everything he had to throw his boots into the corner as she looked on, every fiber of his being screaming  _no_  until it echoed throughout his core. Hiding the guns from her is still festering in his gut like rancid milk, so he figures he owes her at least this much. 

Carl and Daryl are sitting around the kitchen table blanketed by the smell of eggs and freshly cooked bacon. If it wasn't for that smell, Rick can't rightly say that he would have gotten out of bed this morning, which is luxury he thought he would never be granted again. They move loosely, effortlessly as they transition from taking bites of toast to Daryl wiping down his hunting knife and Carl flipping the page of a weathered chapter book. The sight stirs memories long since buried under gun powder and soil; of early mornings around a different kitchen table; shirt untucked, reading the paper like the world wasn't about to crumble around them. Coffee popping and guzzling behind him as he watched the clock, unknowingly counting down the last few moments of a life he wasn't prepared to let go of.

Carl is the first to look up, lips twitching into a quick smile. All the tension and anger that was bubbling just below the surface has been fading away, leaving his face fresh, soft. He's coming back to himself, Rick thinks and he breathes easier for it.

"Morning," Carl greets as pieces of scrambled egg slip from his thumb and index finger. Besides him, Daryl is tearing a piece of bacon in two, grease reflecting off of his lips in the morning light.                         

"Morning," Rick replies as he walks fully into the room, scratching at his stomach. "We out of silverware?" He asks, quickly glancing down at Carl as he heads towards the stove. 

Carl pauses for a fraction of a second before offering a familiar one shoulder shrug. "Daryl said he didn't need any," he reasons like it’s answer enough.

Rick looks behind his shoulder towards the archer, mentally calculating when Carl turned  ‘he’ into ‘we.’ Rick finds himself smiling more than he ought to at the thought. It’s almost enough to overlook how some of Dixon’s less than stellar traits are rubbing off on his son. He’ll take Carl forgoing a fork if he never has to look at his son and think he's dangerous again. "Is that right?"

he asks Carl, though he looks at Daryl with a raise eyebrow.

"Fingers work just fine," Daryl responds, casual. He puts another piece of bacon in his mouth and chews almost daring Rick to make something of it. 

Rick's worn a badge almost directly out of college, the weight insignificant but steady, resting dutifully just above his right bicep. Has sat across so many suspects that he's lost count, all blurring together to a shade of gray that matched the walls of the questioning room, but he can still remember their eyes; insolent and dangerous, confused, fearful and red from crying. Sometimes, if Rick thinks hard enough, he can put himself back in that dark room, Shane sitting next to him, leaning back in his chair with an elbow propped against the arm rest like he didn't have a second to spare them until he jumped up and slammed his hand against the table. Shane used to say that the worst suspects were the ones that looked you directly in the eye and denied every chance of a plea bargain because they were too stubborn for their own damn good. No threat or deal was gonna break them because in their mind, they were already as good as locked up for five to ten. Rick had to agree with him. Some people – some arguments – are just not worth investing in and Rick’s very quickly realizing that this is one of them.

Placing the remaining food on his plate, he sets it down between the two of them. "What’re you working on?" He asks Carl, head inclining towards the book on the table. _Where the Red Fern Grows_. The title jogs his memory, but he lets it go. It just doesn’t have a place in his life anymore.

“It’s for class,” Carl answers, voice dropping. He bites at his lower lip, mulling over the thoughts swimming through his head and Rick leaves him to it. Rick once thought the best way to keep Carl safe - to keep other's safe- was to control him. Since he put down his gun in the prison, he’s learned to open himself up and listen; to work with his son instead of dictate; to trust him. “I understand why they think this is important," Carl begins after looking at Daryl and him respectively, "I do, but shouldn’t we be learning how to defend this place? I- I don't even think Brian and Joe know how to use a knife properly. They should know how to protect themselves. They should know how to keep this place safe.”

Carol and Lori used to make it a point to school the children before Sophia was lost and Carl learned how to hold a gun. It seemed important then, to hold on to what they knew about the world.  _They’ll need this when everything gets back to normal_ , they said like this was still something they could just ride out until the lights flickered back on and people stopped waking from the dead. It was a few weeks later, when Lori was hunched over the table, watching as Carl copied the words of some children’s book they found in the Greene residence that Rick realized that it wasn’t just for the kids. Keeping themselves distracted, keeping busy, it’s what got people by during the early days. Now, well, Rick can’t quite fault Carl for not caring about the book.

_Nightmares end_ , Bob said before he succumbed to the bite, deep and centered near his shoulder.  _The world just needs some time to right itself but it’ll come back to us, Rick. You’ll see_. There was a calm about him in his last few days only comes from a man who truly believed the world could come back to itself. Thing is, even if Bob was right, even if this nightmare somehow ends, you still need to deal with the backlash. No, the world they knew wasn’t coming back and Rick and his won't be around to see a new one even if it does come. Carl may be young enough still, Judith; maybe. Rick’s okay with that now. That thought would once constrict his chest like he just breathed in hot smoke, would have him walking the perimeter of their camp site, eyes dark from lack of sleep, hand shaking as it rested on the holster. Somewhere along the line, his air ways opened until he could breathe- full and deep- pulling in fresh air and holding it in his stomach. Rick’s found the same peace Bob did but his peace stems from acceptance.

"Told 'em he could come huntin' once he’s done s’long as his old man approves,” Daryl’s low drawn washes away Bob’s voice, pulling Rick back until he’s settled in the present. He nods at the hunter, fully appreciating the need not to make up an excuse. 

“Far be it for me to disapprove,” Rick says, briefly lifting up his palms. 

Carl's smile is reward enough as he grabs the book and flips to the ear mark, a casual silence befalling them as they continue on with their breakfast. Rick can almost relive his life in a moment like this, as a child with his brother next to him, to his own family drinking orange juice and making sure Carl got to school on time. A year ago, a moment like this would have left Rick shell shocked, propped in the corner as he envisioned his wife puttering about the kitchen like dinner was about to be ready. It’s a testament to his own strength that he can let those thoughts go, a testament to his will that he didn’t let the fantasy take control. It’s the only real choice a person nowadays; the choice between keeping on and opting out and if you don’ have the right people around you, your options can be limited.

Truth is, he started letting go of his little house on the prairie fantasy back when Lori was still alive. It wasn't intentional and even though Rick felt it happening, he continued to turn his back as she reached out for him. A fraction of his mind was screaming for him to turn around, to weave their fingers together because everything that went down with Shane wasn't her fault, but every time his body made to move towards her, he would jolt like he did the day she slapped him on the open road. Rick has a fair share of regrets tucked away in his back pocket, one of them being that he never found the strength to turn around. Lori died believing her husband and her son hated her when all Rick wanted to do was face her and scream that he was drowning under the weight of what he'd done, he never wanted to kill his friend - his  _best_  damn friend-but he had to do it, had to protect himself from a man that threatened to take everything from him. Rick could part with their home, his job, hell, he could part from himself until he didn't know who he was looking at when he stared into a pond, but he couldn't part with his family. That was non-negotiable.

"Dad," Carl says, probably not for the first time with the emphasis he puts on the word. Rick feels his shoulders relax as his thoughts slip away from the past. "Can I have a cup?" He asks, looking directly at his cup of cooling coffee.

It takes Rick a few more seconds more to completely shake away the residual tension. Carl is alive, he wants to have a cup of coffee, and he's going out with Daryl to learn how to set a snare. Rick may have lost Lori, but he got Carl here, Judith, too. Rick will live with all the regret in the world if it means his children are alive, fed, and happy.

"Never liked coffee, much," Daryl offers out of nowhere. "Always thought it tasted something awful."

“Always took mine black,” Rick offers shortly after. “At least I did until Lori started making it. Then I had to dump in enough sugar to cover up the taste. You know, every morning I would get up not knowing if that was the day I wouldn't make it back, that once I left that front door, I wouldn't be walked through it again. Still, once the alarm went off, I would wake up and go to work but I was too scared to tell my wife that he made awful coffee." His laugh is genuine and easy. "Never could break the habit, even if I was stopping in at a gas station.” 

"She made bad eggs, too." Carl adds after a beat and it's the first time he talks about his mother with a smile. Rick squeezes his shoulder, laughing longer after Carl's confession.

Rick misses Lori, ain’t no reason in lying about that; misses her every time he sees Carl parading Judith around like a trophy or when his baby girl smiles and she looks just a bit too much like her mother. But sitting here, nestled between his son and a man that has come to mean more to him than a brother, Rick’s fine; he’s okay. There’s an easiness here that makes him believe they can get through this, no matter how it goes down with the Alexandrians.

The guilt he expected to feel at the realization is nonexistent. Living your life behind a gun makes you re-examine the day to day. He can't count the number of times he would tell Lori that should anything happen to him while he was out in the field, he wanted her to move on. To let him go so that she and Carl had a chance of finding normalcy again. Lori would shake her head, say -  _never_  - only to find herself in the arms of his best friend when they both thought him dead. Now that Rick’s finding himself doing the same thing, he can’t quite blame himself because god knows he never blamed her no matter how deep his anger ran.

Using his middle finger, he pulls at his wedding ring until it circles around his skin, loose from years of running from walkers and dodging bullets. With all the moving they’ve been doing, Rick’s never really considered taking it off. Now that he is, he's finding that he doesn't necessarily want to let it go. Lori died for Judith, it only seems fitting that she receive the only thing left of her mother. 

Rick drops his hand only to see the hunter staring straight at him, emotions guarded behind a wall he's had too many years practicing. He's just about to say something as Daryl tucks his knife into his boot and makes an excuse to leave. Rick follows him with his eyes as Daryl reminds Carl to finish the stupid book and then he's out the door.

 

::

 

The razor drags down his skin as he makes a final pass along his jaw, skin turning from white to red. Though his arms go off muscle memory, shaving is still foreign to him, burning every time he pats himself off with white linens. Swinging his face from left to right, Rick looks for something he can't define. Pausing before his face moves back towards the left, he finds that he can't quite meet his own eyes. It's not just Carl who is coming back to himself here, he thinks and doesn't know what to do with that thought. 

He takes the steps slowly, planting one foot fully before bringing the second one down. There's no one in the house this morning, Carl off at school and Carol off to play her part in the kitchen, well trained smiles and all. Daryl has been more elusive than usual, slipping in and out like a ghost since they shared breakfast. Rick’s never been one to impose himself on the hunter when the man needed to be alone, but with a recruitment drive around the corner, Rick’s been anxious to find Daryl and sets out to do exactly that before he relieves Michonne of her duties.

When he finds Daryl, he's sitting with his back to the railing of Glenn's house, Glenn motioning emphatically with his hands and smiling over a story Rick can’t hear. Michonne is picking at her nails, head bowed as she slouches at the shoulders but Rick can still pick out the whites of her smile.  _I ain't never been to the beach_ , he would sometimes hear Daryl saying, soon to be followed by a:  _I never tasted a mango_  from Glenn. It was a silly game, Daryl always staying just above the surface, never opening himself like he did when it was just the two of them. Still, it passed the time and brought them together.  _I hate romantic comedies_ , Michonne once said, getting a pause from Maggie and somehow, finding another dried up river didn't feel as heavy as it ought to.  

He doesn’t approach straight off; lingering in the back to prevent himself from interrupting before Glenn finished. Back when this entire thing went down, Rick was singularly focused on finding his family even if it seemed like the odds were stacked against him, one discarded body after another. At the time, the title only extended towards Carl and Lori, the shining example of a nuclear family. Once he found them, his priority shifted to keeping them safe. While Rick's priority has largely remained the same over the years, his definition of family changed, growing until it absorbed everyone in his motley crew. Looking at them from a distance, the need to keep this place - them - safe solidifies like ice in his gut. 

They've all been through the fire and it shows with every clenched jaw and pinched shoulder. This life tugs at you, threatens to hollow out your bones until there's nothing left except the shells you emptied into the head of a walker that morning. People out there, they may be surviving but they're so far from being alive that they might as well get an axe through the head. People who've succumbed to the psychosis, too lost to try to fill the pieces of themselves that they’ve lost along the way.  _I use to eat butter, would always grab a few packets from a restaurant and shove them in my pocket for later. Man, I wish we could find some now_. Yeah, this life can be downright exhausting but Right now, Rick has to admit that he's proud of how far his team has come. Even if they were tested with every fire, every gunshot that left them one person down, they made it. Try to tell him that getting this far ain't worth a god damn thing. 

Not everyone comes out of the life unscathed and while they may always be brushing themselves off, they’re doing okay and sometimes, that's all you can ask for; smiling and shooting the shit because keeping on is what they do. Defeat just isn't in their blood anymore and Rick's proud of that, too. They've come too far, fought too damn hard to be denied their chance at sanctuary and Rick will personally see to it that they don't miss their opportunity to get it.

"Daryl," Rick interrupts hesitantly, keeping an even distance from the others, "a moment."

The smiles are still set on their faces when Daryl pushes himself off the deck with one hand and walks to Rick's side, pausing when he's only a few inches away. Rick doesn't remember when he started confiding in the hunter, but he thinks it was just days following the destruction of the Greene farm, after he stood above a fire and proclaimed himself leader. Daryl was quiet those first few months, letting Rick yell or rant or say nothing at all as they sat next to each other on watch. Rick didn't know what to make of it at the start, kept looking for a motive when there wasn't one to find. No matter how many times Rick stalked off, or grabbed Daryl by the collar because Shane was his brother, damnit. How could he do that to him? How could Lori blame him for taking care of the problem- the archer kept coming back. It wasn't long after that Rick found himself seeking Daryl out, too. Calling him away now, it’s just par for the course as far as the others are concerned.  

“When you heading out?” He asks, feet moving without a real destination in mind. The walls offer protection, but they pen you in like livestock. It’s not surprising to see why Daryl needs to be outside.  

"Early mornin,' Daryl responds, "figure we might as well use the light while we got it." 

Rick doesn't tell him to be careful, doesn't bother warning him to keep an eye on Aaron. Instead, he opts for: "Try coming back with something other than squirrel."

"Try catchin' somethin' yer own damn self," Daryl counters and they both know how that goes; empty snares, wasted bait, and a stern: _Didn’t you learn nothing_?

"I'm passin' the torch onto Carl, thank you kindly."

"Thank Christ for that."

They walk on until Rick stops at the pond that separates part of the eastern end of Alexandria. Nobody’s sitting at the edge today, no kids tossing rocks, or dogs wading up to their neck. Rick’s thankful for the privacy but his mind is still trying to process why. He takes a breath, rolls his shoulders. "It was good," Rick says, softly, "talking about Lori again. Sometimes, I forget that it's good for Carl to remember her, not just what he had to do."

Lori always tried to get Rick to open up, to talk about what he was feeling before he had enough time to piece it together himself. _Jesus, Rick, I feel like we’ve drifted so far apart these past few years. Do you know how it feels waking up and thinking that you don’t know your own husband anymore?_ Rick's always had a problems with words, couldn’t ever find the right ones to fit any given situation, but Daryl understands him, even when his words and chipped and broken.  

"Never was able to forget the smell of my house burnin' to the ground,” Daryl says, heel digging into the grass. The lines on his face tighten, index finger picking at his thumb before he brings it up to his face and bites down on the skin gently. “Me n' Beth set fire to some place we found in the woods. Was a spittin’ image of my house right down to the jugs of moonshine shoved into the corner. Couldn't stop thinkin' that the smell was all wrong though." His voice is lower than normal, eyes looking at the water like it was replaying in the depths. "My old man never mentioned my ma much n' Merle was never around to. It ain’t right; they should remember their mother.”

"Thank you," Rick says, before he realizes he's saying anything at all. He knows that he probably doesn't sound half as grateful as he is, but he also knows he doesn’t have to use words to get Daryl to understand. Their language was never restricted by vowels and constituents, both preferring to stick to the details. Like the drop of Daryl's shoulders when Shane still had him in a headlock, the way their elbows brush against each other when they walk down a dirt path, Rick nodding before Daryl slips into the woods without having to say a word.

He makes it a point to look away when Daryl's brows come together as he pieces together what Rick is getting at, always preferring to give Daryl privacy to deal with his emotions the way he sees fit. Wind pushes against the water and Rick counts the tiny ripples, loses track and starts again. 

The question comes a few seconds later, interrupting his third attempt at a count: "For what?"

There are many things Rick can choose from, but he sticks to the linear, picking the most obvious: "For taking care of my family," Rick answers. "Our family," he quickly amends, because word selection is important. Daryl never had children of his own; Rick knows that, just like he knows Daryl wasn't allowed to have any pets - _Not even a hound dog. Like it would take away from what we did, who we were if a dog helped us find dinner_ -but he offers up his own without question. 

What he really wants to say is: _You're invaluable, irreplaceable in the lives of my children_. He doesn't want to think what might of happened to Carl if Daryl didn't step in to get him talking about his mother when Rick was preoccupied. He can’t think of what would have happened to Judith.

"Someone's gotta keep ya'll outta trouble n' I don't see anyone else steppin up. Thought cops were supposta know how to look after themselves. Would have minded my own damn business if I knew I was signin' up for a full time job."

"Guess I wasn't a good cop," he laughs, but his stomach churns a bit at the confession. Rick’s received his fair share of merit awards, but throwing yourself into your work ain’t exactly healthy. “I'm starting to realize that I may have been a lousy husband and father, too." 

Daryl tenses next to him and Rick can feel his gaze like he's some kind of snare that needs tending **.**

"She asked me to go lookin for you n' Shane," Daryl says slowly, almost like he’s feeling out the words before he says them, "back when we were still on the farm. Told her she could take care of her own damn problems n' to leave me alone." 

Lori never got the chance to see Daryl as anything other than someone to watch from the side of her eyes. A man worth hanging onto so long as he didn't step out of bounds. The thought shouldn't bother him as much as it does. "We're all guilty of not being our best selves on occasion," Rick offers with a small shake of his head, “I certainly am. They ain’t things to dwell on, not when everything else in this damn life is already tryin’ to drag you  down.” Maybe he should be mad at Daryl’s confession but it's a moot point now so he allows himself the omission.

“Thing ‘bout Merle is that he always put himself first. He never really gave a shit bout what happened to me or how hard I had to swing to get outta the situations he put me in. Things ain’t like that for Carl. Yer a good man. Even if you made a wrong call ‘long the way, it was with the right intention. Everythin’ else don’t matter.”

Rick’s not sure what comes over him then, but he acts on instinct, putting his hand on the nap of Daryl's neck and pulls it forward until their foreheads are pressed together, breath mixing between them like fog. For his part, Daryl doesn't flinch outright at the contact, shoulders loosening under his touch by the second. Rick presses his fingers into the muscle and marvels as the hunter slowly unfurls under his touch. They stay pressed against each other for a few moments until Daryl opens his eyes and they’re looking straight at each other.

Back in the prison, they developed a ritual before Daryl went out scouting. It started out small, a quick tap to the gut with the back of a hand, then transformed to a light, opened handed slap to the stomach. Before long, it turned into a squeeze, slow and solid, with Rick’s hand coming to rest on top of Daryl’s. Rick never bothered inspecting their contact, simply took it for what it was: a plea and a reassurance wrapped into one. Rick needed Daryl to know to watch himself out there and Daryl always made it clear that he was going to come back. It was just the way things worked between them. Finding Daryl was unavoidable, bringing him close is just another step in a direction they were already heading.  

The familiar heat begins to build in Rick’s stomach but he doesn’t try to quell it anymore. "I need you to come back," Rick says even though Daryl can read it in the way Rick carries his weight every time the archer leaves the gates; prison or Alexandria, the sentiment is always the same. Rick needs Daryl on his side.  Lori always wanted him to talk but Rick never knew how to connect letters and words to form sentences that had any semblance of a meaning. "I need you," he repeats, just like he's repeated multiple times before but the words carry a different weight now. 

"Ain't going nowhere," Daryl affirms after a heavy swallow and Rick feels like he's standing at the edge of a cliff, head feather light as he waits for the ground to break under him. Rick realizes that he's been waiting for this for a long time, too unsure of himself to acknowledge it before they were ready. The hell of the thing is, he's not even sure what Daryl makes of this to begin with but he's so damn close and he keeps himself there. Rick feels anticipation building in Daryl as sways from left to right, riding it out instead of walking away.

Daryl's a damn good hunter, his observational skills being the crutch that kept them alive last winter. Rick's not a gambling man, but he'd bet on this sure as he would bet on the sun rising. Whether Daryl reciprocates just how deep this thing between them goes or not, he sure as hell must notice it and for Daryl, a lack of response is as good of a sign as Rick's going to get. 

Rick never wanted for anything other than the curve of a breast but he's been shedding his old life like a snake, sometimes dragging himself through rocks to get the last bit off. Even if he comes out bloody at the end, he knows that he's made it. Ain't no room in this life to try to hold onto what was. Who he was, what he wanted, there's no place for that anymore. All that matters is what keeps him alive now and right now, all he can focus on is the feeling of Daryl's head pushed against his. It would be so easy to close the distance between them, so damn easy.

It's not the best place for it, Rick knows that, but Rick's on autopilot and not even a stampede would keep his free hand from twitching forward and grabbing Daryl's forearm. Daryl stiffens at that, but that’s okay, Rick can work him through that. Without enough time for a second though, Rick closes the distance between them, sucking in a breath when his lips brush against Daryl's. It’s slower than Rick imagined it would be, almost awkward until he tilts his head to get a better angle. True to form, Daryl moves with Rick, reading the cues of his body until they’re moving together just like they always do.  

No, Rick’s never wanted anything other than long hair and the sway of wide hips, but right now, he wants this heat to consume him until he can’t feel anything but Daryl pressing against him. Rick grabs at Daryl’s collar, pulling him close until their chests are brought together. None too gently, he flicks out his tongue to trace Daryl’s swollen lips and just like that, the hunter gives into him, opening his mouth until Rick can taste him. He pulls them closer still, his fist digging into both of their sternums. _Good_ , he thinks, he wants to mark Daryl, make him remember this when he rides out of the gates. He wants Daryl to touch his chest before he goes to sleep and know that Rick’s waiting for him to return because Rick needs him, damnit.

The moan that escapes Rick at the thought is unexpected and low, almost ripped from the bottom of his throat. Daryl pulls back at the sound, blue eyes startled and wide. Their breathes are ragged, chests heaving with every inhale and Rick feels the distance spring between them with every exhale. He moves to grab Daryl’s forearm again but the hunter is swaying back from his hips, taking one step back and then another until he’s turning on his heels and stalking away without a word.

“D-Daryl,” Rick stammers, voice still rough with want, but the archer disappears behind a building before Rick can get his feet the move. 

 

::

 

People are creatures of habit and Rick is no exception. Lori always complained about Rick throwing himself into his work to avoid their problems at home and sure enough, as soon as Daryl rode out of the gates, Rick pulled on his jacket and went on patrol. He cracks his knuckles as he walks, one by one until his joints protest at the pressure but he continues to press against them regardless.  

Rick sees people smiling at him as he passes but he can’t quite register them, heart pounding with every step until he can’t think of anything expect keeping his breath steady. He wasn’t at the gate to see Daryl off, couldn’t find the courage to face him after the rejection. He was so sure, damnit, so god damn sure that they were on the brink of something. He tries to think back to what had happened but all he can remember is the feeling of Daryl caving under his touch, is surprised at the intensity of how much he wants to feel that again.

“Rick,” he hears and is turning before he can think better of it. For the first time since he arrived, he’s almost relieved to see Deanna, standing on her porch with her arms crossed. "Can I speak to you inside?” Deanna asks and is moving before Rick can form an objection. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Rick makes towards the door, slowing his pace when's half a step behind her.

She leads him passed the living room where Reg is sitting with Margot and Phil. All three look up as they walk past and Rick nods at them in greeting.

"These people respect you," Rick observes, when they’re at the top of the stairs. He’s coming back to himself, thoughts slowing enough to make sense of them. "That's good."

"It's more than respect, Rick," she offers him a knowing smile. "It's gratitude, hopefulness, determination.” She gestures for Rick to take a seat when they enter the study, but Rick politely declines.  “Have you heard of Robert Putman’s theory?" 

Rick shakes his head no. 

"Community is the key to survival. Now isn't that a beautiful thought?" She briefly looks up at him, lips growing into a real smile. "Sports teams, book clubs; they may not mean much to you anymore but they are the structures that keep civilization together. They keep people working together, learning together, which instills a sense of togetherness that people need now more than ever. Community participation is what makes Alexandria great. It’s what keeps the crime low and it’s what drives us forward.”

"For now," Rick agrees. He has to refrain from rolling his shoulders in an attempt to get the tension out of his body. "But that's not the way people out there operate anymore. Everything is singular these days. The more you grow, the more people are going to try to take this from you and that’s a fact. The worst part is you can't always count on the attacks coming from the outside." Rick made the mistake of letting two prisoners go and he lost his wife because of it. Deanna exiled three men and she stands to lose her community.

Deanna's face tightens as she turns, body coming to rest next to a window. The clouds outside are gray, hurting his eyes. "You know, I've only been outside of these gates a handful of times, Rick, and even then, I always kept close. Truth be told, I've never been around the entire perimeter from the outside," she motions towards the gate with her head, eyes barred from emotion. "You know why that is?" She pauses for the briefest second, not giving Rick a chance to begin to answer: because you're weak. "Because everything out there isn't real. It's not permanent. What is real is the community we're building in here. That's all that matters. If there are people out there Aaron, and now Daryl, will find them and they will offer them sanctuary." 

Deanna has the truth twisted like string stuffed in the back of a drawer. If it was just her life on the line, Rick would be more inclined to let her live out her fantasy no matter how it turned out. Her mistake was getting his family involved in the fate of his community. When Lori was still pregnant with Judith, Rick may have tucked tail and begged to stay here. Would have given up his Python just as easily as he picked up a cattle twitch and led walkers stuck in a mud pit into a barn on the insistence that they were still people. But Rick doesn’t have it in him to roll over until the white of his belly is showing anymore. Rick knows well enough the type of people that can be found outside the walls and he reckons Deanna knows, too.

"It's getting back to me that some of your people aren't happy here," Deanna continues as though she's reading every groove of his face, following the lines that have practically chiseled themselves into his skin every time he pulled a trigger.

He doesn’t have to guess at who she’s talking about. Currently, there are two members of his crew who are having trouble placing nice with the new kids. Rick wasn't exactly himself once; when the last tie to his life found itself in the gut of some bloated walker. Prowled concrete hallways with blood staining his shirt, pigmenting deep within his skin. Christ, Rick walked passed his own damn daughter like she was _nothing_ , but he came back to himself and Sasha will, too. She may need time, and Rick gets that, but he needs Deanna to get that, too.

Daryl, well, that's another story entirely. It wasn't long into their stay on the Greene farm that Hershel came at him with the same concerns. _You have to understand that this is my family Rick, I need everyone accounted and spoken for_. Back then, Daryl was nothing but temper, tail always rattling like a diamond back, mouth ready to snap if you so much at looked at him the wrong way. To Rick’s regret, he spent a lot of time looking at Daryl the wrong way back then. He even thought about cutting him loose when Hershel was squaring up and calling him a liability. Things have changed since then, monumentally and completely. Rick wouldn’t part with Daryl just like he wouldn’t part with his right hand. A day ago, he reckoned Daryl felt the same.

"They're adjusting," Rick responds, civil. He keeps it to himself that he doesn’t think Daryl will ever come around to a place like this, just like he never came around to the prison entirely. "They just need more time to wrap their heads around the change is all. They both lost someone very important to them before we found this place, they’ll come back to themselves soon enough.”

"And I sympathize," Deanna says like it’s scripted. Rick never paid much attention to politics but he knew he never trusted their smiles when he watched them on TV before switching the channel. Deanna has all the right words, but her body is ridged, too tense to match the sympathy in her voice. "But we have a code here and part of that code is making sure my people feel safe. I'm sure you can sympathize with that, too." There’s an ultimatum floating somewhere just under the surface – your people make my people uncomfortable and that just can’t stand - but Rick knows it won’t come. Not if there are people outside of the walls who want to hurt them.

Deanna doesn't want them here, not as a whole. It's not a shocking revelation. Problem is, they’re a package deal and Rick will cut off her fingers long before she’s able to weave them around the members of the group she doesn’t deem worthy enough to stay here. She’s trying to play it smart, manipulating Rick into picking the good of the many instead of the good of the few – but Rick’s ready to call out of bluff. Deanna and her people don’t get to decide their fate and it’ll end badly for them if they try.  

Rick has watched the Alexandrian's play at house with something just shy of disgust. Mowing their lawns and running past with spandex and headbands like their lives aren't in danger every single second. Their heads are floating somewhere between replaying the last Days of Our Lives episodes and preparing for group yoga and Rick needs to bring them crashing down before they lose what they have here.

And these are the people who think they have a right to tell Rick and his how to live. Dictate what and who they need to let go of before they can fully integrate themselves into this ticking time bomb of a community. Thing is, it don't work that way anymore. Rick’s all for making this work but his people aren't the ones who have to change. All it would take is the squeeze of a trigger, one well-placed bullet for Alexandria to be his. The residents could stay or scatter as they pleased so long as they understood the new rules they were playing with.

“Oh, I can sympathize,” Rick says with a smile. Lori always said that Rick didn’t listen, but he’s listening now. He picks apart every sentence and every word Deanna says and hones in on the ones not yet said aloud. Rick’s all about the follow through and if there’s something the Governor has taught him, it’s to strike first when you perceive a threat. “Why don’t we discuss how we can keep you and your people safe.”

He tucks his hands behind his back, fingers trailing along Carol’s pistol. Just one well-time bullet he thinks, and nods when Deanna starts talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everyone who has commented and liked this story. It really does help motivate me when I rather play a video game then sit down and write this story. You are all rock stars!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small part of this chapter dives into the twisted relationship between Daryl and his ever loving brother, Merle. While not in great detail, it goes into hiding your sexuality and mentions not so nice treatment of women.

“Deanna is starting to have doubts about Sasha and Daryl," Rick says when it’s just him and Carol in the kitchen. Keeping an eye on the front door, he places his elbows on the island and bites at the skin surrounding his nails. Looks like Carl ain’t the only one picking up traits from a Dixon. “Implied they make the others... uncomfortable.” The ridiculousness of the statement is almost enough to make him laugh, but he just shakes his head and runs a palm across his jaw like he’s trying to smooth the tension out of his skin.

“Of course they do,” Carol says like it’s to be expected. “These people don’t know what it’s like to survive, much less what surviving can do to someone. They don’t want to know this place isn't safe, especially when they’re looking at who they may turn into if it isn't.”

The only thing Rick sees when he looks at Daryl and Sasha is a will to survive so fierce it brought them back from the brink of hell. Becoming half the people Daryl and Sasha are would be a blessing for the Alexandrians as far as Rick's concerned. "One look outside and they'll see what they'll turn into if they keep on running from what's happening; throwing parties because they don’t want to remember what’s outside of the walls; rationing chocolate instead of ammunition, it ain’t smart."

She offers him a shrug, "Scared rarely equals smart."

"No, I guess it don't," he replies, flicking his eyes towards Carol then back down at the tiled counter top.

It doesn't feel right, standing here with only Carol at his side; the absence of Daryl and Michonne makes him feel vulnerable, like the day he unclipped his holster and placed his weapons down on a tray like an offering. Rick's grown accustomed to their presence more than he probably should have, but you're only as good as your people and Rick keeps the best to the left and the right of him. He didn't know offering them up along with his weapons was the price of admission here. If he had a choice, Michonne would be standing right here with them but with her tapping out on this one, he can't risk bringing her in when a few choice words may have him relinquishing his pistol like Daryl had. Daryl's refusal alone had Rick's hand wavering mid-air, tittering between submitting to their rules and abstaining from their community because as much as he wants Alexandria to work, he needs to be prepared if it doesn't. 

The way Rick sees it, he's living with three loses notched into his belt and there ain't room for a fourth. The cop in him doesn't think he and his will bounce back the next time considering some of his own are still licking their wounds and getting their heads back on straight. He’s seen first-hand what repeated trauma can do to a person, has watched it render Maggie nearly mute the days following Beth's death and continues to watch it eat away at Sasha; burrowing into her skin like a tick, sucking her dry until she's nothing but a shell of herself. Rick can't afford for the others to succumb, will wage war if it means keeping them from experiencing similar trauma again.

As much as he wants to ride this out with the others, he doesn't have the luxury of holding onto hope. There’s no stability in hope, only in steel and iron. If Rick turns over his gun and wakes up to the walls burning or walkers taking the grounds, that will be on Rick and he can't have that. There's too much on his shoulders already. Exiling convicts cost Rick his wife and not killing the Governor when he was sat not three feet in front of him cost them all the prison. His choices, his consequences. He's made his people lose too much without risking Alexandria, too.

"We need to show them how to make it. Once they realize the danger they're in, they're going to want to smarten up. It's the only thing that is going to keep them alive.” Rick rubs at his neck, almost thinking he should shave before he turns in for the night. Doesn't that just make him sound like the rest of them? Like Clara and her partner, casually strolling through town like it was just another Tuesday afternoon. Like the families eating supper together in the evening as if they can just run to the market if they don't have enough milk for the mashed potatoes. What happens if that all gets taken away? What are any of them going to do then. “There has to be a way to get through to them.”

"There is and we will," Carol agrees, "but pushing it isn't going to get us anywhere." She crosses her arms across her chest and looks towards the ceiling. "First, we need to talk to Sasha and Daryl," she says, “Their problems with this place don’t matter, at least not enough to prevent them from keeping up appearances. They’ll have to start playing their parts better, make a viable effort to become part of the community. It will humanize them; once everyone sees them trying they'll be less of a threat." She brings her head down and rests it on the tips of her fingers.

"I don’t know, may be too late for that," he replies. "From the sounds of it, Deanna wants a quick resolution to the problem. As far as I can tell, the only quick method is telling them to leave." His hackles rise at the hint of a threat but he breathes it out. They have options, he reminds himself, some of them less bloody than others.

"Well, that's not her choice anymore," Carol says and Rick can't comprehend how he filled her tank with gas not a month ago and told her to go.

Pulling himself from the counter, Rick taps the edge with his fingers. “No, it ain’t,” he agrees. “Besides, she can't risk losing us all and that's what she is gambling. I don't think she's ready to make a threat she's not willing to follow through with."

Even if she is, it just means they are going to take this place whole.

“We don’t know that,” Carol counters, “not for sure.” She pushes herself away from the cupboard and moves until she's directly in front of Rick; his mirror darkly. "We don’t even know why she let us through the gates to begin with but we can find out. Until we do though, we wait; make ourselves as useful as possible so that the others don’t want us to leave. Create enough of a fuss and she may not have the options she wants available to her.”

Carol is playing it smart, setting up her pawns and knights until Deanna has no moves left to make, Rick can get behind that. He will get behind that. No, it still don’t feel right not having Daryl and Michonne but he’s starting to think he can get through this with just Carol. He’s just about to reply when the front door opens. They look up at the same time to see Maggie and Michonne walking into the living room.

“I think we need to talk,” Maggie says and looks behind her shoulder at Michonne. “It’s about Deanna.”

 

::

 

Daryl curls his left leg towards him, right still stretched out and resting on an overgrown root. He moves his hand between his thigh and calf, trying to keep the tips of his fingers warm. Notching a bolt is nuthin' short of a bitch when the string bites into your fingers like an ember. Give it a few more weeks and he'll have to gear up with a new poncho for the midnight chill. For now, he’ll make do with the dying flame, heat almost completely trapped behind the stones that encircle the pit.

Almost dawn and he still feels like he's hovering just outside of himself; shifting through various levels of debris as he tries to make sense of the last twenty four hours. Somewhere in the back of his mind, thoughts are hollarin' at him like an angry barmaid because focus is fundamental, so goddamn crucial when the twitch of a branch can be the difference between a fox and someone who wants to stick a knife into your jugular and hang you to dry like some kind of prized buck.

It ain't like Daryl to slip away from the forefront of his mind; to lose himself somewhere just outside of focus, but it’s just like Rick to throw him off kilter. Transitioning himself from the fuck who handcuffed his brother on top of a rooftop to something more, something solid and stable and too damn difficult to pin down.

Daryl realizes his free hand is clamped around the shaft of a bolt and makes an effort to loosen it, pointing his fingers straight out until it falls into his lap. His skin feels tight when he flexes, the familiar pull of Merle's words echoing in the expanse of his mind. Ten years ago the only thing that could shut the voice up was the smell of burnt flesh, crumbled cigarette sticking to his skin like a leech, or a rough word to the wrong person in the back of a bar. He may come out black and blue but at least his mind would be silent; body riding out the wave of endorphins flooding his capillaries. Only, the adrenaline pumping through Daryl’s veins now has nothing to do with Merle’s repertoire, but something more animalistic.

Without really intending to, Daryl pushes up with his legs, until he’s standing with no set plan for a follow though. His body is almost vibrating with the need to act, but it’s still too early to wake Aaron n’ they still haven't caught the trail of anything out here ‘cept for possum. Even something as simple as slippin’ off to get somethin' decent for breakfast risks Aaron’s life, so he's stuck in limbo. Out of options, he opts for slinking behind the tree, making sure to keep Aaron in his field of vision. Leaning his head against the trunk, he pulls out a wrinkled cigarette and lights up. _You're out here dodging walkers are you're gonna let cancer get you? Man, that’s fucked up_. T-Dog was one of the first people Daryl offered a smoke to. Wasn’t around long enough to see it through. The smoke is comforting as it fills his lungs and he breathes it out, memory or T-Dog drifting out of him on the current.

Daryl scratches at his neck, foot tapping against the dirt under him. He knows what he wants to direct his stored adrenaline towards n' it ain’t hanging round here waiting to stumble upon someone he might have to shoot between the eyes. Daryl has enough marks on his skin without adding a jagged ‘w’ across his forehead like he's cattle. Let some sorry sonnofabitch try to get his hands on ‘em. _Would hate to see the other guy_ some Terminus asshole said, it ain't nothing compared to what he's willing to do now.

No, what Daryl wants to do is stalk back into Alexandria n' find Rick Grimes. His fingers tighten around the menthol as he thinks about burrowing his fingers into Rick's uniform, pulling it tight until Rick is at his mercy just as easily as Daryl was at Rick’s. Age old reaction had him pushin’ back, Merle’s words threatening to spill out of him like a busted water pipe before he bit it down n' turned on his heels because even though Daryl has been sitting on the outskirts of this thing for a long time, some habits are just too damn hard to break.

He can still remember the flash flood of guilt that jolted through him the first time he damn near shivered at Rick's voice, low and rough like the gravel they were walkin' over, sun perched too damn high for too damn long above ‘em. It was almost too easy to chalk it up to dehydration n' overhearing Glenn n' Maggie going at it the night before. Daryl was never one to get his rocks off for the sake of getting off, but it had been two years since the world burned to the ground n' that’s a long time for any man.

Merle used to bring women to the filth they called home, back when Merle finished his first term in limited n' Daryl was between whatever jobs he found himself doing those days. Money was tight, but it always was, n' it always showed; paint was peelin' off the walls, deck riddled with holes n' make shift support beams. The girls Merle brought home never seemed to care much, probably too drunk or high to realize they were being thrown onto a mattress that still showed signs of the last birdie that found itself between their walls. Merle always kept the pretty one for hisself n’ threw the other towards Daryl like an afterthought; payment for stainin' his sheets n' stashing in his house. _Never say Merle don’t take care of ya,_ he said with a smile, crooked from getting kicked in one too many times.

Without question, the damn woman would push herself against him like a beached fish, wiggling herself against him until her shirt was pulled low enough to expose her bra if she were wearing one, fingers tracing the inside of his belt without hesitation. They never cared much bout who took 'em s'long as someone did after the drinks were gone. More often than not, Daryl would push away, throw the bottle at Merle's damn head n’ stalk outta the house like a coyote was at his heels.

When he returned, the only trace of the women would be rumpled sheets and the glass still broken on the floor. Merle would be sat in an armchair, twirling the remains of a Budweiser bottle in his fingers as his pale eyes looked through him like he was putting together some equation that didn’t need puttin’ together n' that was enough to set anyone on the defensive. _Next time I'll get ya a blonde, baby brother_ , he would say slowly, cracking the joints in his fingers. _Yeah, you would like that, wouldntcha? Nice little blonde to take to bed with ya?_ His eyes wouldn’t waver as Daryl willingly kept his muscles from tensing up. he would spit n' the tension would linger like a forest fire.

Daryl never could get behind rutting against a stranger; felt outside of hisself every time he gave in n’ flipped a blonde-brunette- redhead over n’ took her from behind because he could feel Merle watching every damn move like it was some kinda after-school special. If Daryl punched another hole in the fence later, Merle didn't say anything and that was fine n' good with Daryl.

Give Daryl a stretch of highway or a full moon above him and he’d be as happy as a damn clam. Let everyone else chase tail from one bar to the next. Daryl's never needed anyone to make himself feel whole, so maybe he felt a little unfinished, but at least he was completely hisself. That is until 'til Rick Grimes showed up n' put his hand on the small of Daryl's back to lead him out of a room to talk about fortification or to plan another run. Not even Merle's stare could quell the fire that sparked in his gut whenever Rick touched him, moved in close to make sure no one else could hear what they were sayin' even if they weren't talking bout nothing' important.

Daryl was fine leaving well enough alone until it was damn near impossible to explain the intensity of Rick's stare or justify the decreasing distance between them. Most days, he shrugged it off because examining this thing meant dealing with it n' Daryl’s never been a gambling man, wasn’t about to risk what he had for something untested.

Rick is his friend, he is his leader, Rick is everything he never had when the world was topside up. Daryl's been living with his back against the wall for so long he didn't know how to handle someone looking over his shoulder; couldn't quite bring himself to trust someone who said they got his twenty when all it ever got him was a pipe to the back of his head and a shattered eye socket. Rick was honest though, kept his word every time he snipped someone who came at Daryl with blood in their eyes. How could Daryl risk everything over some backwoods fantasy?

Problem is, Rick drew him closer with every touch only to turn around and call him brother. The hunter in Daryl wants to pin the word down like a carcass. Wants to strip it off its hide and gut it until there's enough room to get his hands into it. He wants to wrap his fingers around flesh until he knows the word from the inside out because he already has one foot over the threshold of this thing but ain’t no way was he's going to lift the second until he is absolutely sure what’s on the other side of this.

_Cautious as a cat_ , his pa would say about em. _Got teeth and claws like one, too_.

In the end, they both allowed it to happen, Daryl is sure of that now. Allowed themselves to veer off course somewhere along the trajectory of their friendship. Even with all the side stepping; Daryl stalking off to take watch or Rick calling for Michonne so they could triangulate, figure out how best to hit the Governor without causalities on their end, all they ended up doing was walk in circles, always coming back to the apex point, shoulder against shoulder like they didn’t have a choice.

  
Daryl sucks in smoke, lets it root inside him before he breathes it out. No, Daryl was never a gambling man, but it looks like his hand's been played for 'em. Ain't much else to do but see where the hand takes 'em.

  
::

  
They meet in the den, all hunched shoulders and tight lips. Carol and Maggie sit on the sofa, forgotten laundry settled between them, as Tara and Michonne take the armchairs. Ford is propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, jaw working on a piece of gum. It's a poor consolation for the council that crumbled under the weight of cannon fodder and high power ammunition, but it’ll do. Rick has to make it a point not to picture everyone missing, everyone they lost along the way.

Maggie wastes no time jumping into the reason she brought everyone together. "Deanna's getting uneasy," she begins, wide eyes looking at each of them in turn. “She knew she couldn't keep Tobin on after what happened at the construction site, but Abraham makes her nervous. She mentioned how many of us are getting leadership assignments and I think she’s worried about losing control.”

Deanna has every right to be worried. With Rick and Michonne heading security, Glenn leading patrols, and Maggie taking point with Deanna, Abraham's appointment gives them four positions of power; Rick can work with that, Deanna can’t. Carol said they should get the people on their side and now they have a bona fide hero in their midst. Deanna wanted to integrate them for her own protection and now she’s realizing the risk that ran along with the move.

“She doesn’t have to be worried,” Michonne offers, voice natural. “Abraham stepped up when everyone else ran away. Her people are alive because he did what needed to be done and that goes for all of us. She'll come around, she has to.”

Ford grunts in the corner, shaking his head and looking at his boots. “And if she don't?”

“She will,” Rick assures them. He doesn’t add that she doesn't have a choice.

“Yeah, but what if she doesn’t?” Rosita echoes Ford’s sentiments and he can’t blame her for it.

“We don’t give them that option.” Rick answers, honest. “We knew that since day one.” He runs his hand over the stubble growing in over his chin; makes it a point not to look at Michonne.

Unsurprisingly, she is the first to offer up the backbone of an opposition: "We can't think like that," she insists and he’s struck by how much he wants her back on his side. “We’re good for this place and this place is good for us. Keeping us divided is making this harder than it needs to be. I can’t keep running anymore, Rick. We can’t keep on running.”

The weight of her words don't spare anyone. Rick has watched his people as they forced one foot in front of the other because the midday heat dried up riverbeds, has held Beth’s hands in his own to help blood return to her fingertips. He knows well enough what being out there is like and he’s damn sure he won’t willingly offer his people up to the wild again, even if it means offering up another part of himself that he won’t get back.

“We won’t,” Rick promises and he means it. “We won’t have to run anymore. I won’t let that happen again.” Rick never planned on standing over them and proclaiming himself their leader for the second time, the title was shoved into his chest and kept there until he couldn’t keep it any longer. He had to shoulder the weight of knowing that his command could cost any of his people their lives, that his example could cost Carl his humanity. It's not a weight he wanted to carry but he did for the sake of his people. Now they look at him like they want to take it away but he can't allow that to happen. Not when his actions can keep them here when Deanna could easily send them away. “This can be our home, this will be our home, but if Deanna does anything to take this away from us, we’ll have to do what needs to be done."

Rick doesn’t take kindly to being backed into a corner. Has bitten down into the tendons of a man who threatened his son and left the blood on his skin until morning. It was Daryl who offered him a wet rag and a shoulder, it’s now Rick who’s offering Daryl - offering all of them -the chance of something outside of living like an animal. He doesn’t tell them about Daryl and Sasha, keeps it secret like the pistol tucked into his jeans. He doesn’t tell them what he’s willing to do – what he has done – to protect them but he prepares for it anyway.

“They wouldn’t have put Abraham in charge if they weren’t willing to work with us,” Maggie reasons. “Deanna hesitated, but she made the call. She knows she needs us, we're just figuring out the foot work." She squeezes her knees as she leans forward. "When ya'll first came to the farm, my dad was ready to throw you out but he didn't.” She shakes her head and looks Rick directly in the eyes. “It took time, but we made it work. We can do the same here. We have to."

Rick can't argue that but the rules have changed since then, or maybe it's just Rick who's changed. Rick used to be scared of the world. Woke up frightened and confused in a hospital room and he carried the weight of those feelings with him like an anchor. Truth is, Rick's still scared. Reckons it's the fear that's kept him and his alive this long; but he refuses to play the victim. If the world threatens to take everything from him again, he's going to meet it head on because there's little else he can do. Until then, he'll bide his time. Will nod at Maggie until she breathes out a sigh or relief and will meet with Carol to plan in the morning. 

 

::

  
  
"Have you thought about what you're going to say to these people?" Aaron asks as he caps his water bottle and stuffs it back into his pack without a second thought. Daryl learned first-hand just how easy it is to take the motion for granted right before their first introduction. When his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth n’ every swallow felt like sandpaper being scraped down his throat.

  
"Told ya before I only need three questions," Daryl answers, distracted. They caught the trail of a survivor after finding tracks leading off the road not a mile back. Another half mile in and they found the car, abandoned n’ outta gas. A quick check of the glove compartment n' trunk showed that everything has already been scavenged, right down to the plastic liners. Whoever ditched out was thorough n’ thorough is the closest they are gonna get to alive. Only problem is that the trail goes cold a few feet back.

  
S'far as Daryl’s concerned, his job is pointin’ Aaron in the right direction. What Aaron does after that is completely up to him.

  
“The big three, huh?” Aaron asks, a hint of a smile pulling at this face. “Who's the mastermind behind those?"

Daryl readjusts the strap of his Stryker as he pushes through veins. "Rick and a man named Hershel came up with 'em when we settled into the prison," he offers up with a shrug. "Never had much time to vet people we met in the open n' we had to start with something. Was never really 'bout the answers though. What people did or didn't do," he says with a pause, "don't make much difference these days, hell, can't say I haven't done nothing questionable. What matter is if they're straight up 'bout it, you know? Honest is hard to come by these days."

Not in Aaron though, who gives out pieces of himself n' just wants to truth in return. "Bringing people into the community is always nerve wracking," Aaron confesses easily. "You're always wondering if you're making the right call, if your decision is going to put the others in danger; I swear, it can drive you a crazy on bad days. Sometimes though, things happen, like you bringing your people to the barn and you know you're making the right choice."

Daryl turns towards him but a collection of broken branches catches his attention. "There," Daryl says catching the trail again. "Looks like he cuts though the trees," he says, head following ‘til the footsteps are outta sight. Six long steps brings him to the brink of a clearing when the trail cuts right. “Well, whoever it was, looks like they were trying to avoid something they happened upon,” he says and looks up at Aaron. “Should go take a look.”

They’re about fifteen steps in when Daryl sees it – sees her; tied up and stripped like some kinda cult offering. Aaron makes a guttural noise behind him as Daryl approaches but keeps pace with him, regardless. The woman is fresh, blood not even a day old. Walkers took what they wanted before the crows set it, biting off pieces in small chunks around her shoulders and stomach. Daryl looks at Aaron before reaching forward, already anticipating what he's going to find on her forehead. He nods to himself when he sees the mark of war carved into her flesh.

  
::

  
Rick turns over in his bed, stretching his legs and bringing his arms under his head. Two hours and he still can't get his mind to shut off enough to get some proper sleep. He figures this should be the easy part; muscles learning to relax against padded cotton, the privacy of a door. As simple as picking up where they left off before they were forced to turn their backs on everything that made them who they were. The rest of his people seem eager enough to fit themselves in the grooves Alexandria provides, but Rick's finding that his edges have been beaten down by the elements, left too jagged to fit into place.

A year ago, Alexandria would have been everything he hoped for, topped off with a circular metal bow surrounding the perimeter. The wires in his head must have fizzled out somewhere between the last time he was forced to stretch himself further than he was able to and now because he doesn’t know how to acclimate himself; can’t figure out how to look at his neighbors and see something other than a threat or a liability. The man he used to be could make a home here, he’s sure of that. He'd put everything on the line just to get through those gates. But that man he used to be was naïve; would look at who he is now without the ability to reconcile the decisions made along the way.

Looks like Shane had been right all along; the Rick Grimes that woke up in the hospital wasn’t cut out for the world they live in now. Thing is, neither way Shane. Neither are better off for it.

As it tends to do, thinking about Shane completely ruins any chance of sleep for the night so Rick readjusts himself until he can look out the window. It must be just after two in the morning by the position of the moon. It creeps through the windows, illuminating the stains left behind by missing picture frames. Lori always insisted on hanging photos of sunsets and bright landscapes around their home; would spend hours going from one yard sale to the next trying to find the right pieces. It’s in the details, she would say, holding the picture in her hands for minutes on end. Rick never paid much attention to the paintings then, but their absence is suddenly painfully noticeable.

Carl managed to find a few posters of movies and bands he liked, at least liked enough, to plaster over the walls of his room. Pair them with the collection of comics he borrowed from Stephen and kept scattered across his desk and bed and Rick can almost imagine the teenager Carl never got the chance to be. But then the moans start or Sasha fires a round and Rick knows the teenager Carl was supposed to be would have never had a chance.

_We should make this place nice,_ Carl said, no question of leaving in his mind.  _Judith should know what it feels like to grow up in a home._

_Yeah,_ Rick agreed and wished so terribly they could. _She should._

They manage as best as they could with the common rooms; re-positioned furniture and brought in decorations that made the house seem lived it. He cooks with Carl at night and kisses Judith goodnight before closing the door to  _her_  room and doesn't that count for something? He’s trying, even if the others can’t quite see it. Sometimes, he actually thinks it's working even though it isn't. Rick can’t stop feeling like he’s chasing a fantasy. He can feel the clock counting down the hours until the Governor rolls up in front of their gates with a new tank to take everything apart. How can he focus on recipes when there’s a world out there ready to tear them apart?

Giving up on sleep completely, Rick sits up and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. Not for the first time, he wonders how Daryl’s getting on. Going off in pairs is dangerous no matter how well prepared you are. All it takes is a surprise attack to leave behind your gear, one night of bad sleep to make you sluggish and slow. Rick should have insisted they take a third, someone to round them out but it wasn’t his call to make. _We all have parts to play_ Carol said, but he refuses to play when Daryl's life is on the line. 

Thinking of Daryl makes Rick take another deep breath. Letting him leave without saying anything was a mistake. He doesn’t want to set the pretense that what happened between them was some kind of lapse in judgment - a kick of the nerves he couldn’t control or explain. Rick ain’t ashamed of giving into impulse. He knows full well what he wants and he has the wits about him to finally reach out and take it.  _This_ should be the difficult part, he thinks, not learning how to sleep in a bed but finding yourself in something you’ve never considered in the old world.

With the world falling apart around him, Rick’s never seen things more clearly. Lori’s death quieted something inside Rick but he’s finding it again in suspicious eyes and the flex of triceps. Daryl is safe, an extension of himself. It’s almost too easy to wrap a hand around Daryl and bring him close. To close the distance between them because Rick feels like he knows the man as well as he knows himself. Why shouldn’t he push the boundaries and know the man from the inside out?

Rick's tongue flicks out at the thought. Daryl’s taste has already subsided in his mouth and Rick wants more. His timing was off the first time, he gets that, but he knows how to work the hunter. Trusts full and well that Daryl will follow him when he returns, even in this, because they're both so damn tired of running. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never understood why authors apologized for late entries, but I really do apologies for this. A friend offered me a very last minute traveling opportunity and I had to jump on it. Sitting in the hostels, I did feel a little guilty about just taking off (sue me) so there you have it. I also completely gutted and rewrote this chapter because I couldn’t get it right, but this is the closest I’m going to get if I want to get it out there. Thank you, as always, to everyone who had commented and liked this story. You keep me going, even when I'm traveling the globe. I know I'm going to hate myself for posting this so hastily in the morning, but I feel bad for making everyone wait.


	5. Chapter 5

“Who do you think we're dealing with?” Aaron asks as they make their way through brush. Daryl’s on edge, guiding him along the perimeter of trees tightly packed together in case they need to bug out, duck behind cover to keep them from becoming targets. Ain't no glory in bravery when you’re disadvantaged enough by being off your own turf and potentially outnumbered. The only thing stupid leads to is dead and he ain't having that.

More and more he’s starting to think that finding the marked walkers along their walls was coincidence, the byproduct of some wacko fucked enough to cut em loose n' let em wander through woods in some warped game of hide n’ seek. Proximity n’ luck got em from point a to point b, the middle bits were just random shuffling, no different than running into a pheasant on a hunt. Walking passed the woman tied to the tree though, that's like walking passed a cypress with claw marks cutting through bark in a long, bold warning: you crossed into bear country, son, hope you came prepared.

Nothing about their current situation makes Daryl feel the slightest bit prepared. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t have a good sense of the land; doesn’t know the grooves or the dips that can provide hideouts as well as cover, hell, he can't even be certain that the path they're on won't lead them to some kinda dead end or trap. They got ammunition, yeah, but it wasn’t like they planned on squaring off with the locals, whoever the fuck they are. All in all, it ain't an equation that settles well in Daryl's stomach.

“Dunno,” Daryl answers, honest n' this lot don’t exactly seem like the type to let you stick around long enough to get answers. "Ain't exactly inclined to find out, neither." He is inclined to find the person they are tracking, ‘specially if they got any information on who pinned the blonde to a tree like a dart board for walkers. The more information they have, the better they can prepare in case these people come looking for new real estate.

He's been debating backtracking since finding the blonde, returning to Alexandria to gear up, maybe get more people to return with 'em: Ford, Glenn, Michonne, maybe, he could probably muster Rick into coming too if he mentions the carved up forehead. Aaron and Daryl've got a good thing going, but Daryl would feel less vulnerable with his own covering his six. But heading back means cutting their chase short n' Daryl ain't particularly keen on that either. If Aaron has an opinion on the matter, he doesn't bother expressin it so Daryl opts to keep going.

Keeping his Stryker in front of him, Daryl continues trailing footsteps, finger drifting across the trigger like a promise. He's ready to drop any sonofabitch that smells like a threat. They didn't survive the Governor's raid, being tied up like swine, three seconds from being slaughtered to let some boondock psychos get the jump on them now. By the looks of it, Aaron is right there with him; his Smith n' Wesson is cupped in both hands with a determination that tells Daryl he's willing to pull the trigger if he has to n' going off what they just found, he's going to have to.

Aaron's had it easy and it shows in the way he holds his gun. Daryl ain't about to say he's not familiar with pulling the trigger, but Alexandria sheltered him from learning how to pull the trigger when initial response is telling you to hold up, maybe there's a way we can figure this out; Daryl thinks that was beaten out of him by Joe's people. There's no mistaking the intent behind the rise in Aaron's shoulders though, he's prepared to do what he has to, Daryl just hopes he doesn't choke when it comes to the follow through.

"If this is their ground, they're close," Aaron says as they stay par for the course. They're walking slower now, keeping their footfall soft in case anyone is still lingering just outta sight. By all accounts it looks like whoever ditched the blonde took off before the walkers came in for their feast and there's nothing to indicate permanent residence - no warn in footpaths or displaced dirt from a camp being set up, nothing. "Think they have a shot of finding us?"

'Bout the same shot the Governor had at finding survivors to help him come claim the prison, Daryl figures n' he don't like those odds. Daryl's done chancing their fate; on waiting for their enemy to show their hand before they make their move. When you hunt bear, you don't wait til it's charging, one set of claws already ripping through your flannel before shoving a knife through its temple. You get 'em quick, one bolt through the brain so that they go down fast.

"Time n' a bit of luck n' whose to say they won't?" Daryl asks, splitting his attention from the trail they're following to their surroundings. He eases up on his Stryker when they continue on without issue but keeps it at his side all the same. It dawns on him suddenly, making him break stride, but not completely stopping to look towards Aaron. "You said you exiled people before?"

Aaron sucks in his cheek and nods his head in answer. He opens him mouth but clicks with his tongue before starting: "Three. Found two after one sprained their ankle dodging a pack of roamers. They where holed up in some shed- was half burned down, roof practically caved in, hardly something to call a shelter, but they made it work for them; were doing a hell of a job keeping those bastards out when I found them. Deanna wanted me to focus on finding people who were resilient, you know, who seemed like they knew a thing or two about surviving," he says and Daryl is left wondering if she's just not ready to cope with the type of people who know how to handle the world. "I helped get them out, they came to Alexandria and it seemed like such a good fit at first. Then Davidson's leg healed and he started butting heads with Deanna, pulled in a woman named Paulette and Deanna was scared he was spreading tension throughout the safe zone. We tried to make it work but," he pauses, blinking his eyes a few times before he shakes his head, "Daryl, This- this isn't them. They were stubborn, thieves, sure, but they weren't murderers."

Daryl bites at his lip, weighing out the probability of the exiles linking up with another crew. Sure as hell wouldn't be the first time someone who was cut adrift came back for vengeance. Could be that Rick was right after all and the walkers were the first wave of something pointed, a strategic plan to test their fortitude. Gut intuition is telling him otherwise, but the walkers around their walls still feel like the first few drops of rain before a hurricane.

There's enough resolve on Aaron's face to lead him away from considering the exiles as candidates, but regardless: "You'd be surprised what people can turn into out here."

"Some people, maybe," Aaron agrees, "but not everyone. Didn't change you much."

"Changed me plenty," Daryl offers and he's not sure why, "'Cept, it wasn't this version of me that needed the changin.'" He shuts off the part of his mind that conjures images of him waiting in a pick-up, Merle taking too long at a gas station and Daryl knew what he was apart of, even if Merle never voiced his intentions aloud. He could picture everything that went down when Merle jumped into the passenger seat and snapped: _You stupid or somethin' boy, drive_ ; of sneaking away from the camp to plan the best way to rob it blind. _Don't you hesitate dropping the swine if he steps up to us, little brotha._

It took Daryl years to make peace with his ghosts and get comfortable with hisself and his needs. He don't need a resurgence of memories to hinder his progress, to still his arm when he's finally ready to reach out towards what - who - he wants. There's no more room to pretend to be something he's not, to want something he don't want. He's only got enough fuel in him to focus on what matters, not all the bullshit that bit into him like mosquitoes.

Aaron's eyebrows clinch together as he considers the admission but he doesn't ask more of Daryl. Instead, he changes the focus to the other members of his group. "And the others? What about them?"

Daryl bites at his lip, then shrugs his shoulder like it's obvious. Like it's some age old equation that doesn't need explaining. "Just bout lost Carl not long before we lost the prison," he draws out, voice more distant than he means it to be. "Carol was always a survivor; she just learned how to play up her strengths is all n' Sasha, she'll be alright; our people got a way of pullin' themselves together." N' they've had to over and over again until it's not worth thinkin about anymore. They'll be alright, just give 'em time.

A moment passes n' Aaron runs a thumb along the straps of his pack before pressing: "What about Rick?"

"What 'bout Rick?" Daryl asks, all the sudden defensive. Something in his chest tightens around the name, encasing it behind the same wall he used to keep around himself.

Aaron shrugs his shoulders trying to ease away Daryl's aggravation. "Hey, I'm not trying to get at anything here, he just seems- when we first met," he sighs, taking a few seconds to regroup his thoughts, "look, you two are...close, I get that and you wouldn't be out here with me if I didn't trust your judgment about people and that extends towards Rick. I'm just trying to get a better feel for him, that's all. I'm guessing we haven't had a chance to see who he is yet and-"

"Rick's a good man," Daryl interrupts, not particularly keen on thinking bout the way Rick's been unbalanced lately. "Half of us wouldn't be here if it weren't for him." Daryl counts hisself as part of that lot. If it weren't for Rick, Daryl woulda skipped out back when they were bunkin' down on the farm. "Rick made sure his boy came back to himself n' he'll sacrifice just bout anything to do the same for his own like a proper lil' boy scout."

'Cept there weren't nothing proper 'bout wanting to take out the Grady Memorial Hospital.

"Sounds like a team that I want to be on," Aaron says finally n' he sounds like he means it. "I haven't had to stay out here for long so I'm not going to lie and say I know what it's like, but I get that it roughens you up at the edges. It's just that I think those edges might benefit from some cushioning is all."

Daryl regards him from the side of his eye, but keeps his mouth shut. Rick ain't 'bout putting on a show like Carol, don't need to win anyone's affection by pretending to be what he's not; it's the first thing Daryl respected 'bout him, the uncompromising way Rick's unapologetically hisself. If you don't like it, you can see yourself away from the group because he's not about to change his morals for someone else. Rick is honest, sharp like the machete that took Garreth's life. Deanna should be thankful he lets his edges show like a badge of honor instead of tucking them away like the pistol he keeps tucked into his jeans.

"He's a good man," Aaron repeats, "I can get behind that. Look, I'm...I'm just worried," he admits, sucking in his lips like he's still debating whether he should come out and say what's on his mind. "I remember how Deanna got about Davidson before we decided to let him go," he continues, pace slow, no doubt selecting his words carefully. "She didn't say anything to me about Rick and as far as I know, hasn't said anything to anyone else, but I've brought a lot of people through our gates and not all of them got to stay. I know how she gets when she's evaluating someone. You just may want to talk to him about those edges."

Daryl needs to fight the urge to stop, to turn around and yell loud enough to draw walkers towards them."Rick ain't bout hiding who he is or what he needs to do," he just about snaps. "Ya'll should count yourselves lucky he's willing to use what he's got to help you. Rick's the best chance ya'll got." He shakes his head, shoving the tension down until he's breathing normal again. "'Sides, no Rick grimes, no us; just how it works."

"I'll take the package deal," Aaron says. "I brought you in because I thought you were good people and I stand by it, for all of you. I just want you to know where things might stand so we can do something about it, alright?"

"Yeah," Daryl says, finally, "Alright."

"Okay," Aaron says, relieved. It's enough to completely dissolve Daryl's frustration. "Let's get on with it then."

 

::

 

They lost Noah.

Rick hardly registers the slam of the door as he descends the stairs, middle finger and thumb pushing back against the skin on his cheeks, tracing the hollows of his bones. The crunch of concrete stops him in place and his mind is too preoccupied to get his body to start moving again. Instead, he leans against the banister to support himself, allowing the majority of his weight to settle against wood. The echo of his heartbeat drums in his ears, drowning out the slams and orders coming from inside the house. Part of him knows he should be inside but he can’t focus on anything except for the blood speckled on his fingers, already drying in the afternoon sun. He picks at the flakes with his nail until his skin shifts from white to pink from the pressure of it.

Tara’s blood; he knows it's Tara's blood but he can't get his mind to store the data. It's sitting idle somewhere just out of reach and he leaves it there. Let's it rotate around his head instead of pulling it close, cracking it open like an egg until it spills into him. It's easier to leave it there than it was to pull himself out of the room Eugene and the others rushed her to. Easier to let his thoughts orbit around him like flies than to trust her life with a man who is beating his wife.

"There’s still hope for her," he repeats to himself and the laugh that follows is involuntary, ripped from his gut and dragged out into the open. It’s too loud, a short cackle that makes his body twitch but maybe that's just the whiplash from his nerves sparking. He can't help but think it's a good thing people are too preoccupied to take notice of him.

Blunt force brain trauma and these people want to throw around platitudes like they mean something. Cat scans, neurological consultations, _they_ mean something, not some half-assed doctor without proper equipment or enough personnel to make a difference. If Tara makes it through, he means really makes it through this, not waking up just a fraction of herself because coming back less than yourself just makes you walker-bait in the end, it won't be modern medicine but sheer damn will and determination.

Covering his eyes with his palms, Rick's body pulls itself upward in a vain attempt to displace the tension quickly shrinking his skin, trapping him in a body that is suddenly too tight to contain him. The bottom of his stomach pulls air in by the mouthful, but his lung still feel deflated, like there are microscopic holes puncturing them like balloons.

It doesn't take long for academia to take over, mind listing the symptoms of panic like a prayer; shortness of breathe, heart palpitations, trembling; everything is so goddamn textbook he should be able to snap himself out of it but even with all of his training, he can't quite get his legs to stop shaking.

They lost Noah, lost Beth for Noah, and now Tara may very well be on her way out. Not twenty-four hours and somehow, he's down two people with a third somewhere outside of the walls, unaccounted for, with no back up available outside of a man who belongs to Alexandria. There's no sense to any of it; no sense to why any of it went down this way.

This is what happens when you don't have control, Rick thinks. When you allow people the liberty of living when they put your own life in jeopardy. Aiden and Nicholas had no right returning back to the field after their first run with Glenn. They had no right to call any shots out there but Deanna was too weak to pull them off duty; to store them until another assignment could be given to them. Nicholas may be feeding Deanna a sob story but Rick calls bullshit. Glenn may be his own, but the emotions behind his story were real.

 _W-we couldn't get the body back_ , Glenn stammered, entire body pressing into Maggie's like they were glued together. She had her arms wrapped around him as she pulled him close, but it wasn't enough to ease away the ache that was rutting around inside him. _If I tried they would've gotten me, too. He didn't deserve to get left behind like that, he deserves a burial like everyone else we've lost_. Rick didn't want to think about the graves they have had to dig; one for Beth and one for Tyreese. Didn't want to be reminded about what losing control leads to, but Glenn continued on, too shaken to stop himself if he wanted to. _I just left him there_ , he repeated, _we are supposed to bury the ones we love._

 _She's calling them in separately_ , Maggie said, pulling Glenn's head towards her chest. _She won't believe him_ , she said and Rick wasn't sure which one she was referring to but hoped she meant Nicholas.

Deanna wouldn't talk to him about what happened and he won't press, not yet at least. Rick knows what it's like to be hollowed out by the loss of a child, to be scraped impossibly thin until the slightest pressure threatens to tear you apart but he also knows how to push through it, too. He still had Carl to tend to and Deanna has Spencer. More so, she has Alexandria. She needs to grieve, but she also needs to grieve and Rick isn't convinced she's clear headed enough to do that right now.

"Rick," Michonne's voice calls from behind and he turns on his heels to face her. She looks drawn, eyes dulled by the shadows that are slowly encircling them. Rick wishes he had something to say but it's nothing she wants to hear. All he can do is shake his head for it.

"It can't continue like this," he whispers, voice harsh. He feels beads of sweat pooling around the length of his collar but it's not hot enough for that, not with winter coming at them like a freight train. "If we allow it to continue like this there will just be more graves to dig."

"We don't allow anything, Rick," she responds, lips tightening. "Not anymore. We figure out what happened as a group and act as a collective. Being reactionary is going to make this worse on everyone."

Rick laughs again, noting the way Michonne flinches a fraction of a inch away from him. "Make this worse? Making this worse means more people die and you know what's going to help that along? Allowing people like Nicholas back into the population. There isn't room for people like him here and we don't have to make any."

"Do you really think this is the best time to discuss this? We just lost someone, Deanna just lost her son." She crosses her arms against her chest, but the movement looks more self-soothing than one of anger. Rick wants to help her, to put an arm on her shoulder and tell her they are going to come out of this just fine, but he can't, not while she refuses to see what's going on here.

"No," he answers though, "I don't, but we don't have a choice. This place is falling apart, people are dying and the ones responsible are walking free. You expect me to be okay with that?"

"I expect you to let Deanna do her job."

"Deanna doesn't know what she's talking about. She still thinks she can solve everything by baking cookies and throwing cocktail parties."

Michonne drops her arms in frustration, keep her voice pitched low: "What do you want them to do, Rick? Apologize for finding this place? For doing what they think is best?"

"They don't get to decide what's best. They don't know how the world works anymore," Rick repeats for what seems like the millionth time. "You know that. I know that you know that. This," he throws out his arms, "isn't the real world anymore and it ain't going to cut it."

He doesn't count it as a victory when Michonne relents, shakes her head and walks back into the building to get a status on Tara. Rick doesn't have time to follow her though. Instead, he heads straight for Deanna. 

 

::

 

Rick's never been so certain that things need to change; not since Shane dragged him out to the clearing.

He feels the tick of a clock hitting him in the small of his back, vibrating up his spinal cord until his head is echoing with it. Every second is bringing them closer until this place caves in on itself or blows up, either way, there will be collateral damage.

Rick can empathize with Deanna, he meant what he told her about her son, but he can't wait until she catches up. The people out there, the ones who will push through the gates and take this place with iron and steel, they've had two years of practice while Deanna and her lot played house. They were sharpening their knives while Reg constructed a wall he thought could solve all of their problems. While the citizens of Alexandria complained about detergent, the people out there learned how easy it is to pull the trigger while looking someone directly in the eyes.

Deanna has a problem with perspective. She's focused on the good ones - the _kind_ ones- but she doesn't know they were the first ones lost along the way. She should be focusing on the dangerous ones, especially the ones that are hiding behind her own walls. How can she focus on the outside when there are weeds taking root in her own garden?

Back on Hershel's farm, Rick would have done just about anything to dust off the rubble, pick up the world like an overturned table and prop cardboard underneath until it was right-side up and stable. Hell, he would have offered his own fingers if it meant returning to the way things used to be. Deanna is still trying to find enough strength to lift the table when she should be wiping her hands and walking away. 

You can't salvage what's left of the world. Learning that cost him a brother, not figuring out that you can to control the world around you just about cost Rick his life and his wife's loyalty. Maybe he should count himself lucky that he was eased into the realization instead of thrown in twelve feet deep, but he can't give Deanna that luxury. It's time to sink or swim and the weight of the old world is pulling her down like an anchor. Rick can't let himself get dragged down with her. 

As far as he's concerned, he held up his end of the bargain with Michonne and the others. He played his part, focused on settling disputes over rations instead of pressing for more defenses, helped find the McKinley's dog instead of reevaluating job assignments to maximize efficiency and all it amounted to was three more holes in the ground with the possibility of another being added hanging in the balance.

The police officer in Rick can't sit idle as Pete threatens Jessie. The man he has become refuses to still his hand when it could mean saving the life of a woman and her two children. Deanna may not have enough real world experience to know that they can control the situation anyway they want, that they can manipulate the strings and the wires until the world is exactly how they want it to be, but Rick does. Sentiment, clinging to the traditions of the old world has no more place here.

Rick's prepared to weave his fingers into those strings, to tweak and pull until the end result is something he's comfortable with, until it's something he can control. He has the fortitude to make hard decisions, has watched as his people - his son - looked at him with distrust over his decisions but it won't stop him from making them. It all comes down to doing what needs to be done.

Rick thinks back to being shoulder to shoulder with Daryl, backs braced against the jeep as Carl slept away the horror he was threatened with. Even now Rick can taste the copper that clung to his tongue. Can hear Daryl's reassurance - what you did last night, anyone would have done that - just as easily as he feels the knowledge that no, not everyone would have. At least, not everyone would have been willing to take it that far, to let themselves sink until they were no better than a walker, tearing at human flesh like it was nothing.

Rick doesn't have it in him to back down. To bend over because his people are going to be mad about his decisions. The man Rick tried to be, the one who lived by a shovel instead of a gun, would have tried to make excuses to justify how everything had to go down: Rick didn't have a choice but shoot the man behind the bar because he could have been reaching for a gun himself; not taking out Shane left Lori and Carl open- he was unhinged, a scorpion in the shadow and if Rick didn't step on him, if he didn't push down with the toe of his boot until he was sure Shane wasn't breathing anymore, he was leaving his family - the group - in danger and Rick couldn't have that. In the end, he was left without options. Couldn't anyone see that?

Rick doesn't need excuses anymore. He's reconciled with his past transgressions and if he ever second guesses himself, he just need to look at Glenn or Maggie, at Michonne or Daryl or even Abraham. Those are heartbeats, they are blood pumping through veins and sometimes, they are smiles. No, Rick doesn't need excuses anymore but he does needs lives.

See, Deanne, she's too preoccupied by the big picture. She's trying to focus on every detail - every line, every curve and shadow and color. She hasn't quite grasped how to push aside the static until she's cupping the steady beat of a heartbeat because in the end that's all that matters.

People died under Aiden's command and he still stepped towards Glenn like he had something to prove, chin up, chest out, posturing like an ape because he was incapable of listening. Aiden ended up losing his life because of his inability to accept a shift in control and another life hangs in the balance because of it. Now Deanna risks everyone's life because she's not willing to back down, to take a step back and reanalyze a strategy that hasn't even been field tested yet. Rick can't wait for her to fail that test; won't risk another life when he can do something to stop it from being taken.  
Rick doesn't necessarily mean to walk himself to Jessie's garage, but he's not surprised when he finds himself there either. Part of him thinks he should walk away, come back when his mind isn't fully of Noah and Tara and although it's not exactly fair, but with Tyreese and Beth, too. Four people, four people he was charged with caring for and they're not here anymore. Now he's looking at the fifth and he can't risk her too just because Deanna is too hesitant to do what needs to be done.

Rick can prevent this from being a problem, he can, but he needs Jessie to work with him. All she needs to do is say yes and he'll make sure that Pete doesn't touch her ever again and if he so much as thinks about it, Rick will put a bullet in his brain because he can, simple as that. All of this waiting, the planning and stalling, it's a cop out for being afraid, for having to make choices that would make the old you cry. Rick's tired of the games, he's tired of body counts, so when Jessie says: yes, he pounces. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is so much fun writing Daryl and Aaron, seriously, there is so much to explore between these two! I'm also having a lot of fun writing Rick as he gets more and more unhinged leading to his little breakdown. Here's to reunions and Daryl interacting with Morgan! Cheers! As always, feed back is love.
> 
> Also, I've been checking out a lot of profiles of people who have commented and I see that many of you have also written stories that I'm bookmarking and will get to! It's hard for me to read about the same subject I'm writing, but I will repay the kindness shortly. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little more steamy at the end...maybe an 'm' to be safe. If that's just not your thing, you may want to divert your eyes.

Hindsight is nothing short of a bitch when walkers are piling on top of the van, fingernails snapping from the pressure of trying to pry metal open until Aaron and Daryl are exposed. Somewhere between hands slammin’ against the windshield and the side mirror falling off, Daryl finds a fraction of a second to think: 'Course this was a damn trap. The realization comes twenty minutes too late to do them any damn good n’ for a moment he feels the same guilt rip through him that had him breaking down in front of Beth after the Governor tore the prison apart. 

Daryl pushes the guilt down, refusing to divert his attention to anything outside of escaping with both his n' Aaron’s lives intact. It doesn’t take long for grim reality to close in as tight as the walkers surrounding them. Outside of the knife he has tucked into his boot n’ his crossbow that’ll be all but useless in tight conditions, the van has been stripped of anything that could possibly help them get through the hoard. Every addition of a body ripples through the crowd until the van rocks on its wheels n’ they keep on comin’ like the dinner bell won’t stop ringin.’

With the seconds counting down, it’s crunch time for a plan n’ Daryl is drawing a blank. Going by Aaron’s wide eyes n’ accelerated breathing, Daryl’s guessing Aaron's waitin’ on him to come up with a solution or a fabled: I’ve gotten outta worse instead of preparin’ a pitch of his own.

The damn thing is, Daryl can’t quite think of something worse. Even in the boxcar there was a glimmer of light creepin’ through the crack in the door. At least the crack was a chance; a vulnerability that gave Daryl and his enough hope to keep themselves going. When hope gave out n’ they woke up hog tied next to a trough, minutes away from being gutted like pigs, they were together n’ they’ve always managed to get the upper hand when they were together. Looking around now, Daryl only sees hands n’ teeth biting at air in anticipation. He don’t see Glenn or Carol, but Aaron, n’ while Aaron is closer than Daryl expected to becomin’ one of his own, they still don’t have a track record of getting outta things alive.

The one thing Daryl doesn’t see is a way out.

Though his body protests with the need to do something, Daryl settles back in his seat to get his head together. It feels wrong not tearing the car apart to look for a sheet or something they can use for a distraction, but panicking ain’t gonna get them anywhere. Taking his time, Daryl runs their inventory through his head one more time: If they use their jackets to block the windows, they won’t have protection when it comes time to bail out, they ain’t got enough bullets n’ there are too many walkers to take out with knives. The hoard’s too big to risk opening a window to throw out a distraction, not that they have one in the first damn place.

Daryl closes his eyes once he realizes that there’s nothing else they can do. The thought hits him in the center of the chest like a fist, pushing out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He eases himself through it, forcing it out until he’s breathing normal again. In a few minutes, walkers will break through the windows n’ with nothing to protect themselves with, they don’t got much of a chance of getting through them.

Urgency triggers his body to shoot forward, the small of his back pushing against the seat until he’s looking behind him again. There’s always something, he thinks, n’ right now, he’ll take something small instead of nothing. Like he’s tracking squirrel, he hones in on the details; looks at the angles of compartment doors to see if they are sharp enough to use as blades or thick enough for blunt force, follows the seam of stitches on seats. He’s muttering something ‘bout finding cover n’ it’s enough to spur Aaron back into motion. If Daryl works fast enough, he may be able to cut off the cotton covering the seats n’ place it up against the windows to block themselves from view. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only shot they got.

He’s just about to move when he notices Aaron go still next to him. Somehow the crinkle of paper cuts through the moans of the dead n’ any hope of escaping is knocked outta his head by ink scrawled onto paper: Bad people coming. Don’t stay.

Lookin’ out the window, he don’t need to guess at what likely happened to the previous inhabitants of the car. Now they gotta deal with some psycho disturbed enough to use walkers like junkyard dogs even if they do manage to get the hell out of the van. He only notices that his fists have balled up at the thought of willingly walking into their trap once his palms start aching. One miscalculation, he finds himself thinking in a mirror of Grimes philosophy, one misstep is all it takes to cost you your life n’ Daryl took a big one without looking.

Pulling up his knee until it’s resting against the wheel; he shuffles through his pocket until he finds it. He can feel Aaron's eyes on him like he's some kinda magician gearing up for his final act, the grand finale that will somehow get them outta the car alive. Thing is, Daryl's all outta tricks n' the only thing he can think to do ‘bout that is have a cigarette. Best thing that’s happened to him all day is that he still has a lighter in his front pocket. Paper crackles as he inhales, looking ‘round his surroundings in a final attempt to weigh out his options. Smoke wafts between them as he finally accepts that his options are as slim as three day old carcass pickings. It should be terrifying but Daryl’s surprising calm for it.

Maybe it's the bare bones of it all. If he's gonna die, at least he's gonna die honest. Not tucked away behind a wall, prowling the edge of some house party like he was ever gonna fit in without changing hisself. People like them – the Alexandrians – were never gonna accept Daryl for what he is. All they see is everything they wanted to avoid ‘fore the world went to shit. Now they grip their kid’s shoulders when he gets too close like he’s the threat instead of what’s out here. Throwing on a long sleeve shirt ain't gonna change that.

Daryl’s lived in the shadow of hisself for too long to go back now. He’s done pretending to be someone he ain’t. If it means the residents of the safe zone keep him in their peripheral, fine be it with him. The people who matter take him for what he is.

Daryl is the wild. He’s long defined hisself by bushes of blueberries n’ nights under the stars. If anything takes him out, he rather it be now, by mulch covered hands as he fights until he can’t finght anymore. Hell, maybe it’s better this way. He doesn’t know how to relate to the others in context of buttoned up shirts n’ dinners ‘round the table. At least now he’ll be at peace with hisself n’ wasn’t that a long time coming.

Daryl's finally managed to break down the wall he spent his entire damn life creating only to have walkers burst through the holes. It ain't exactly funny, but he finds himself wanting to laugh all the same.

Aaron looks at him likes he's cracked when the laugh finally escapes him, so Daryl goes with honesty: "Even stuck in this car, I feel more like myself than I ever felt back there."

Out here, he don’t need Carol approving his outfits like he’s some kinda doll people can manipulate. Don’t have to try to prove his worth outside of providin’ for his own or justify the context of his relationship outside of what it simply is. There ain’t room for that shit out in the open n’ there’s no room inside hisself for everything that comes with a place like Alexandria.

It becomes clear to him somewhere ‘round the fourth drag. At heart, Daryl is a provider n’ the best thing he can do now is give his group the best chance at getting what they want; stability, a community to root themselves into. Daryl don’t know if he got it in hisself to be part of it, but he can help secure it for them. That starts with someone getting back to Alexandria.

"I'll lead ‘em away," Daryl says n’ it's final. “Just let me finish this,” he adds, lifting the cigarette between his fingers. Along with his crossbow, smoking is one of the last bits of hisself he was able to keep when the world came crashing down. It’s only fitting that he goes out with the taste of menthol on his lips.

Leading the walkers away is the only decision that makes a lick-a-sense. Outta the two of ‘em, he's got a better shot; leather of his jacket thicker than Aaron’s flannel; years of learning how to properly duck n’ dodge, how to break outta holds n’ push through getting the air knocked outta him culminating to this moment, when he finds hisself stuck in a beat up old Honda, preparin’ himself to weave ‘round the dead.

The decision settles in the hollow of his throat, trapping the smoke n’ making it difficult to swallow. He ain’t exactly scared, but there’s a weight on his chest that has him thinkin’ ‘bout Rick n’ Carl, ‘bout Judith curled up in Maggie’s arms n’ the look on Rick’s face when they learn he ain’t making it back.

If there’s anything worth fighting for, it’s getting back to them, back to Rick.

The thought would have Merle turning over in the pit they called a grave, but it gives Daryl the shot of adrenaline he needs to get through this. He don’t want to give up on his own if he don’t have to. At least he has a chance out there, even if the prospect of pushing through the walkers all has beads of sweat collecting along his hairline, it’s is a chance. If he doesn’t make it through, the distraction should give Aaron enough time to make it to the fence. If he can make it back to the fence then he may be able to get back to Alexandria. He'll be able to warm them - warn Rick ‘bout the people marking up walkers n’ leaving traps in the open. He'll be able to tell Rick why he left as a pair but came back on his own.

The knot in Daryl’s throat expands like fog until his airway is tight with it. Daryl gave up on Rick Grimes once, stalked the woods with Beth so she could feel like the teenager she was never allowed to be just so he didn’t have to think ‘bout what he lost; then he hollered at Beth ‘til his voice was raw when they both realized they couldn’t keep pushing away the reality of what happened. He don’t know if Rick mourned him then, but he won’t have a choice but to now.

Daryl breathes through the ache in his throat when he thinks about the way Rick’s spine will straighten until he’s statue still from the news. Pushes away the thought of the hollow look in Rick’s eyes as he sucks in his cheeks before hitting a wall. Daryl ain’t one for making excuses, knows fully well that Rick never completely came back to hisself after losing Lori but he trusts that this won’t break him either. Rick’s stronger than he gives hisself credit for, more durable than the others think. People like Rick keep on going even if they don’t intend to.

N' people like Daryl keep pushing through even if they think they can't anymore. He swore that he would never give up on Rick after finding him again n’ he don’t intent to now. He may have been too cautious to hold his ground, to plant his feet into the soil like the weeds Rick tended back in the yard, but that’s done with now. The convictions Merle n’ his pa beat into him with closed fits are fading away like bruises, leaving Daryl open to taking Rick up on his offer. Firs thing he's gotta do is get back to Alexandria.

Daryl coulda had it, he shoulda had it a long time ago n’ now he’s gotta fight like hell for another chance. He's breathing heavier than he means to, psyching himself up ‘til Aaron shakes his head and says: “No.”

“We fight together,” Aaron says n’ there’s no room for argument. Daryl twists the words ‘round in his head lookin’ for Aaron’s out; a final offerin’ ‘fore he accepts Daryl’s sacrifice but there’s nothing but honesty in the way he’s lookin back at him. 

His fingers are on the door handle when there’s a thump against Aaron’s window n’ blood sprays against the glass.

::

The map feels like lead between Daryl’s fingers. His muscles flex as soon as he reads Rick’s name, paper crinkling under the pressure. It’s a coincidence, he tells hisself, just some straggler passing through at the right time. Course he would follow a trail that may lead to survivors, they had all followed signs for Terminus when their other options were wiped off the table. That’s how it is now. You see something that points you towards safety n' you go for it. Anything else is a death wish, 'specially when you're goin’ at it alone.

As much as he wants to accept the explanation, instinct is twisting his intestines, gripping ‘em tight ‘til he don’t have a choice but to start making connections his brain ain’t ready to connect yet. Morgan; the name echoes in his ears like a faded alarm. Unconsciously, he take a step back because his mind may need more time to wrap itself around the situation, but his body is already figuring it out.

Seconds pass before he finds it in himself to look back towards the stranger. "Where you lookin’ to go?" He asks on automatic, trying to pull out the answers he needs to make sense of everything.

"It's not exactly a place," Morgan responds as he reaches for the map. Reflex has Daryl holding it tighter. "I'm looking for someone and I've got reason to believe they passed through here."

"Family?" Aaron asks, "We were tracking someone a while back but we -we lost the trail." His sigh only emphasizes his exhaustion. "If you think it’s them, we can try picking up the trail again." He checks in with Daryl like he's making sure it's okay before continuing: "If they're lucky, they steered clear of this place and continued on south. Maybe we can look around the perimeter for any signs someone got through. If anyone can find them, it's Daryl."

"Thank you, but I believe the man I'm looking for didn't stay in the area," Morgan indicates towards the map with a finger, but Daryl doesn't think it's just the map that Morgan's getting at. Anyone can find a map; Daryl's found plenty, but he left most of ‘em behind. There's something specific ‘bout this one n' Daryl doesn't exactly like what it may be. "I wish you luck if you decide to go looking, but I'm afraid I've come too far to get sidetracked.”

Daryl moves the map down to his side, pressing further with his questions: "Where'd you come from?” He's being lazy, focusing on placing Morgan's whereabouts instead of asking him how many walkers he's killed; how many people.

Rick never gave him all the particulars of where he lived, mostly because it didn’t matter anymore. Cities, street names, they were as inconsequential as the skeletons they walked over in the woods. What mattered was what they were doing next; where they were going, if they could find somewhere to sleep, something to eat. They learned the basics along the way, enough for Daryl to know Rick live-

“Just outside Atlanta,” Morgan responds, shuffling on his feet like he’s ready to move on. 

Daryl exhales hard. He knows who’s standing in front of him but his mind is rejecting the thought even as the details circle around him like vultures. He pushes on as his mind slowly accepts who has found him: “Came a long way for someone who may be dead," Daryl says n' he gets a stern look from Aaron for it. 

Morgan laughs quickly n’ quietly ‘fore shaking his head. “Maybe I did but it's my journey all the same. It’s my hope that our paths will come together again, if not, I’m certain this is still the road I was meant to walk."

The last time Morgan and Rick were on this road, it ended with a puncture wound. Daryl ain’t ‘bout to let that happen again. Before he can think better of it, he finds himself asking: “What you want with Rick Grimes?” Because he needs to know why Morgan is looking for Rick n’ put an end to it if it risks his life. 

Morgan considers him with a reserved calm that Daryl doesn’t except, cocking his head to the left before looking toward the sky n’ smiling. "Rick and I have some unfinished business,” he says slowly. “He asked me to find him a long time ago and it took me longer than expected to get on my way. I'm…I’m afraid I wasn’t quite myself the last time we… encountered one another and I'd very much like to see him again."

"Wait,” Aaron says with a shake of his head, “Y-you’re one of Rick’s?” His eyes widen as he looks between them, brows coming together in confusion. “You two know each other?" His mouth remains slightly open as he waits for an answer. 

“Na,” Daryl answers but keeps his eyes on Morgan, “not exactly.”

Daryl knows Morgan like he knows a familiar bar story; conceptual, over-exaggerated yet somehow standing right in front of him. Daryl remembers the caution tape yellow of the walkie; the static of dead air. Rick never said much ‘bout the man outside of the fact that he owed his life to Morgan n’ his son n’ truthfully, Daryl never paid him any mind ‘til Rick returned to camp with an arsenal n’ blood seepin’ through cotton. That was all Daryl needed to make his own assumptions ‘bout Morgan n' those assumptions are making the hairs on the back of Daryl’s neck stand up in warning. 

Daryl never got the particulars 'bout what went down between the two, largely because Rick wasn’t keen on sharing ‘em, but it reinforced Daryl’s belief that Rick’s opinion of people was shit; particularly those he decided to bring in close. If Morgan got the upper hand that day, Rick likely wouldn’t of made it back n’ that's putting Daryl on the defensive. 

He sways on his feet, careful to keep a guarded distance between them. Damn thing is, Morgan don’t exactly strike him like someone who’s got their screws loose. Morgan’s hands have dropped casually to his side, a strap of his backpack slipping over one shoulder. He’s looking at Daryl with a hopefulness that has him tensing, but he don’t look any more dangerous than a stag that's stumbled into the front yard. Even stags have antlers though.

“He's back at the safe zone,” Aaron says, before Daryl has the chance to think ‘bout what he’s going to do about Morgan. “Rick," he emphasizes. "It’s not far, but it’s a walk back to the cars and I can't guarantee the safety. We’ll all be safer if we go together and like I said, you could leave whenever you wanted."

Morgan drops his gaze momentarily. "That's a very generous offer," he responds, “and I’ll gladly accept.”

"Then we should really get going," Aaron replies, looking back towards Daryl. "I’m not sure about you, but I’m ready to get the hell away from this place,” he says, indicating towards the lot with his head. “I don’t want to be anywhere near here when whoever they are come back.”

“Wolves,” Morgan says, offhandedly; his fingers twitching next to his side, “that’s what they called themselves. There were two when they found me, but one mentioned others.”

Wolves, Daryl tucks away the bit of information as he shoulders the crossbow. Rick'll need it come time to handle 'em n' it looks like Morgan is the front runner on information. “Got any more information?”

“Not much, but I’ll share what happened.”

“C'mon then,” Daryl says, making sure to keep his distance as they start walking. 

 

::

Morgan takes the first watch; settling himself on top of a rock like one of those Buddhas Daryl sometimes saw in the China shops. He's long since wiped away the brain tissue n’ blood left behind by walkers, but some has already set, staining the wood with the colors of mud. Morgan keeps the stick centered on his bent knees, hands resting near the ends, fingers loose. He looks a far cry from a man ready to spring n’ knock someone’s head in n’ for some reason, that makes Daryl uneasy.

He's lying on the other side of the fire, partly to round out their look out n' partly to put some distance between ‘em. Back when Daryl was still in school, he once watched some stupid documentary about the bottom of the ocean. He slept through most of it but he remembers watching a fish wait stalk still in the sand for hours 'til its prey was dumb enough to swim directly in front of its mouth, then bam; a lightning fast snap of lips n’ it was over. Watching Morgan through the flicker of flames feels remarkably similar. 

It's hard to reconcile the jab of mistrust when Daryl likely owes his life to the man but he figures Aaron is grateful enough for the two of ‘em. He was babbling ‘bout the safe zone 'fore they could even ask Morgan a thing ‘bout himself n' that's plain careless no matter the circumstances. Daryl can't exactly fault him for it. There isn't enough new world experience in the way Aaron trusts. He hasn't yet met the Gareth’s of the world, who will welcome you with seemingly open arms but size you up in pounds of meat rendered. 

Morgan may have saved ‘em but that don't mean Daryl's gonna forget 'bout Rick’s last run in with him. The crossbow wasn't Rick’s only parting gift. They used the bullets Rick brought back, left the guns when they were forced to jump ship at the prison, but Rick has one constant reminder that Morgan lost hisself along the way; tucked away by cloth, carved into the skin just shy of his shoulder. Putting Shane down may have been Rick’s introduction to the new world order, but his run in with Morgan was the final lesson. Only thing that’s gonna teach Aaron his lesson is time n’ Daryl finds himself hoping Aaron lives long enough to learn it. Lord knows he almost didn’t today.

Daryl shifts onto his side, almost welcoming the jab of a rock pressing into his ribcage. The pressure grounds him, momentarily blocking him from trying to make sense of everything that's gone down since he left the compound. The jolt is enough to have him open his eyes, his body continuing to ride out the wave of adrenaline that's still sending aftershocks of convulsions through him. The crash is coming n’ he hopes to all hell they’re back in Alexandria when his body finally bottoms out. 

He feels strangely vulnerable without the others watching his back. It’s a comfort he shouldn’t have grown accustomed to but he has all the same. Stuck between Morgan n’ Aaron, the only familiarity he can take comfort in now is the Stryker resting at his side. His fingers twitch towards it much the same way they twitched towards Rick after Hershel patched him up when he returned from his run in with Morgan. Misunderstanding, Rick had called it later that night, Daryl inspecting Hershel’s handiwork to make sure it would hold. Hershel was damn handy when it came to making the most outta nothing, but it didn’t stop Daryl from worrying none. Part of him wanted to rip the bandage off to make sure the wound wasn’t deep enough to risk infection, that Rick wouldn’t die because some asshole couldn’t handle the cards handed to him, but he held back. Cursed as Rick laughed and reassured him that he was okay.

“You call that a misunderstanding?” Daryl had asked, eyebrow cocked in question. “Anyone ever tell you you’re shit with people?” It was half way between a joke and the truth. 

"It's been brought to my attention," Rick replied with a laugh, the whites of his teeth peeking through the smile. His body was relaxed under Daryl’s house, back pressing against the bars of the cell as his hips swayed lazily between them. 

That was the beginning, Daryl never stopping to consider how easy it was walking himself into Rick’s cell when he would pause at the other’s, worry at the skin on his fingers as he caught their attention. It was an easy pattern to fall into. Just the way things were between them, like patting Rick ‘fore going out on a mission, Rick always meeting him at the gate. Never needed no second guessing ‘til the other’s started bringing it up. 

"Laugh it up," Daryl snapped, "just don’t go forgetting you needed to get patched up by a cow doctor because your head wasn’t on straight.”

“That I did,” Rick had agreed, “I’ll be sure it won’t happen again.”

Assurances were easy to make but never easy to keep; just wasn’t the way the world worked anymore. Daryl took it anyway, stored it away so that he could use is against Rick the next time he did something stupid. He won’t be able to hold it against Rick if he’s the reason Morgan gets the opportunity to do something again. That’ll be on him n’ it’s almost enough to rule Morgan out as a lost cause. Maybe Daryl would if it was his decision to make. 

He moves onto his back, takes in the stars above him. For the first time in a long while they ain't familiar n’ they certainly ain’t helping calm him down any. He has to take a deep breath when he realizes that most things in his life ain't familiar anymore; from Carol gunning for Mother Theresa's title, to the woods 'round him, to the shift in his relationship with Rick. The foundation is shaking n’ he wants nothing more than to find a solid piece of ground to stand on.

Within the last twenty-four hours, Rick had pulled him in close, crashed through their long established boundaries n’ Daryl failed to meet him there. He was trapped in a minivan with weaponized walkers all too willing to leave Daryl as nothing more than a carcass rotting in the sun. He prepped himself to fight n' gearing up for the alternative until Rick's imaginary friend saved the damn day. Saying his body is unsettled is an understatement n' while part of him wants to slump into a deep sleep, there's too much adrenaline coursing through his veins to let him.

Aaron shifts restlessly next to him, the shuffle of the sleeping bag only making it harder for Daryl to settle in. Looks like they'll all be tired tomorrow n' that's never a winning combination.

The fire is nearly burned out when he gives up on sleep altogether; pushes himself up by his elbows ‘til he’s sitting up right. He don't meet Morgan's eyes but he feels them, guesses he should feel lucky that Morgan's eyes are the only ones he feels.

Technically it's Aaron's watch but he doesn't move to wake him. Morgan seems to be in agreement as he says: Don't soon as Daryl looks at him. 

"With everything he’s gone through, I think he could use the extra sleep. You can, too.”

"I'm good," Daryl reassures even though he can already feel a dull ache settling behind his eyes. "Never needed much sleep," he offers and he ain't sure why. It's a hell of a lot more honest than Daryl tends to be with most people he crosses paths with.

"Is that right?" Morgan asks, lips twitching into a slow smile. There's no humor behind it, no merit. "My son was the same way. I always woke up to find him already awake; peering through the cracks in the wood or rationing our food for the day," he looks towards the dirt, slowly nodding his head. " I- I lost him early on,” he offers, voice dropping momentarily but he regains himself quick enough. “Lost my wife before him,” his palm comes up to rub at the cloth of his chest but he shakes it off. “Took me a long time to find myself after that and Rick was a casualty of that. I'd like to make up for that if I can.” His eyes are back on Daryl then, searching him but Daryl just nods in response.

Morgan isn’t the first person to lose himself. Even Rick was teetering on the wrong end of himself before they were able to pull him back from the edge. 

“Tell me,” Morgan continues, readjusting his legs until he’s comfortable, “are they safe? Rick’s family?” There’s an intensity to the question Daryl wants to smother. 

He don’t feel right giving pieces of Rick’s life away; don’t feel qualified to define what Morgan means by family. Daryl knows what he's come to define as family and as it stands, he'll but a bolt through Morgan's head if he so much as looks at Carl or Judith the wrong way. 

“His boy’s alive,” Daryl responds when the silence presses on too long. He leaves it to Rick to fill in the rest. 

Morgan nods, dropping his gaze back towards the fire. "Thank the lord for that," he says quietly 'fore asking: "What about yours? Do you still have family?"

Daryl nods once, "Yeah,” he says simple, “I have people.”

::

 

"He stopped me from going alone," Daryl admits, reluctantly. They’re sitting in Rick’s room, backs against the wall with their feet stretched out in front of them. Daryl slid down the wall as soon as Rick closed the door, like the sudden click triggered exhaustion he couldn’t show when he was out in the bush. Rick considers motioning towards the bed; almost wishing he could submit to his own exhaustion just so he doesn’t have to think about how close he came to losing Daryl, or to process looking up from Pete to see Morgan standing in front of him. 

Somehow, Rick reckons bringing up the bed will cause more harm than good so he opts for joining Daryl on the polished oak floor. 

Daryl swallows down hard, like his body is trying to drown any feeling associated with the past few hours. Rick can’t blame him, but he can’t quite keep himself from checking his own anger either. With every exhale, a million questions and accusations threaten to follow the stream of his breath and billow around Daryl in a suffocating cloud: _Who are they? How many? What were you going to do? You were going to leave me alone?_

With his nerves still sparking like a loose wire, Rick mentally talks himself down from taking the edge off on Daryl. Biting his cheek, he nods through Daryl's explanation until Daryl seems to run out of words. It doesn’t exactly leave Rick thinking any better about the situation.

“So throwing yourself at walkers was your solution?” Rick asks in an echo of Lori from so long ago. You are Daryl? That’s your big plan? Rick risked it all to go after a man who deserved to rot but his gamble paid off tenfold. He’s damn thankful they’re not left dealing with the repercussions of Daryl’s. 

"We’ve gotten outta worse,” Daryl says in mild protest. He only mildly flinches when Rick calls bullshit.

And it is bullshit. Rick’s come to rely on Daryl’s intuition and skill more than his own on occasion, but Daryl against a penned in hoard of walkers? Rick doesn’t need to do the math on that. When it comes down to it, Rick chalks up the bulk of his survival to dumb luck. Waking up untouched in the hospital, finding his family, surviving the farm and Woodbury and Terminus, there’s nothing divine about that. It’s a sheer statistical anomaly and Rick’s well aware that it shouldn’t have played out the way it did. The more they press, the more they offer themselves up, the more likely they are to feel the sting of every risk they take and when it all does come crashing down, he doesn't want it to be on Daryl.

"If it hadn't been for Morgan you probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” Rick says. The muscles in his jaws flex at the thought of it. Keeping his voice neutral right now is a downright choice and a hard one at that. “Can’t even say for certain if Aaron would’ve made it back and then it would have been for nothing.”

Daryl sucks in his lip before responding: "Wasn't like I was offering myself up," he says, bringing his legs in until they’re crossed in front of him. He looks at Rick from the side of his eye but doesn’t seem prepared for prolonged contact. "Don’t have it in me to just sit there n’ let the bastards get me; that ain’t me, man. At least if I fought, I had a chance of making it back." 

It’s not often that Rick sees Daryl so vulnerable. It’s a testament to their friendship that Daryl is always right there with him, riding out his own fatigue so Rick doesn’t have to go at it alone. Rick can’t count the nights Daryl sat with him, back to back as the others slept on only to slink away at dawn to catch rabbit so they had enough energy to get through the day. No matter how hard Rick pushes himself, Daryl is right there beside him but now, Daryl can’t quite bring himself to keep his eyes open. When Daryl tilts his head and looks back at him, Rick can't find it in himself to feel anything but grateful. 

“I get it,” Rick eventually concedes. “I do, but that don’t mean I have to like it.” There’s nothing really left to say about it. 

There's a long pause before Daryl responds: "Don't seem like the people here like what you did while we were out neither.” There's no bite to the comment, just a general observation that Rick can’t exactly argue with. Deanna may have given him the order but that doesn't take away the fact that he was the executioner.

The noise that escapes him isn’t the laugh Rick intended. “Things got a little out of hand," Rick admits. What Rick really means to say is that he lost himself again but he’s not ready to say it aloud, not when he was so close to getting himself back together again. "I got into it with Pete," Rick continues, lip twitching. It's an oversimplified as far as explanations go but it'll be enough for Daryl. At the very least, it fills the silence. Michonne will likely give him the play by play up until the moment Daryl walked in on the execution. "Told everyone that I didn't know what happened but I do. It all - it just got to be too much; the prison, this place, the lying; then Noah," he lets out a shaky breath, not certain if the death has had enough time to properly sink in yet.

The truth is he doesn’t want to think about it anymore but he owes Daryl this much. Massaging his eyes, he pushes on: "Michonne ended up cracking me upside the head; put me out cold. Everything just came crashing down afterwards.”

Rick’s not entirely sure what would have happened if Michonne didn’t take charge of the situation. He has a feeling it would have ended with another pit being dug in the graveyard but he can’t say which name would be scratched into the wooden cross. He should have taken the risk, ended it there to spare the compound a needless casualty. Reg didn’t have to die, wouldn’t have died if Rick wasn’t stopped from fixing the problem. 

"Remind me never to bet on you in a fight," Daryl says. It’s low, simple and defuses the weight of Rick’s partial confession. Rick finds himself laughing despite himself. It’s good being back near Daryl; Rick’s calmer for it. 

"Well, not everyone takes them as good as you," Rick counters and instantly regrets it. Rick meant watching Daryl walk away from Joe’s crew when they hit him to the floor without the intention of letting him up again. Rick’s time as a cop made him all too aware of trauma and he knows words can trigger memories of bloody lips and bruised eyes. They can drag you back to the past no matter how far you’ve crawled away from it if you’re not prepared for them. For his part, Daryl seems to let the comment go and Rick is thankful for it. "’Sides,” he continues, “Michonne has a hell of a right fist. I’m just thankful she’s usually standing at my side.”

"You took care of it," Daryl says, "showed everyone what they may have to do to survive. Aaron n’ me, we weren’t far enough out to consider the wolves anything but a threat. If they find this place, it ain’t gonna be good. 'Specially if we’re not prepared.”

“No, it won’t be,” Rick responds, but he gives himself a moment of reprieve. He’ll – they’ll – handle the new threat, but he tables it for the time being. “Things still didn’t have to go down the way they did. I got away from myself again, that isn't going to help anyone." He lets the truth sink into his skin, trusts Daryl to see it for what it is. “Hell, maybe it’s good that it happened; came clean to Michonne about everything. The damn thing is, when I was telling her about the guns - our plan - I couldn’t justify why we hid it from her in the first place.”

"Ain't room for secrets no more, not between us." Daryl says and the room gets heavier for it. Rick reckons he didn’t mean anything outside of the context; that they’re better when they’re all working together, but it gets lost in a memory of the hunter’s taste. Rick can’t help think back to their kiss and damn it all if he can’t stop thinking about going in for another. 

Daryl begins to lose his edge of relaxation next to him, shoulders flattening against the white of Rick's bedroom wall. He starts picking at the frayed patches on his jeans before looking back towards Rick. “When I was in the van,” he begins, biting at his lips as if contemplating his words carefully, “I couldn’t help thinkin’ ‘bout this place. Thing is, I realized it ain’t for me. I don’t got a place here.”

Rick swallows down the saliva preparing his throat for the sickness threatening to come up. “Your place is with us, with me,” Rick says, turning himself to face Daryl completely. There are few things Rick is sure about these days, sometimes, that even includes his own sanity. Daryl is familiar in a way most things don’t get the chance to be these days. Is just as much a part of Rick as the Python that has somehow managed to stay at his side since the start.

Rick already allowed Daryl to walk away once; It’s not a mistake he’s keen on repeating. Not when he threatens to take the last of Rick with him.

“We’ll make it work,” Rick hears himself saying, without really registering that he’s actually talking. “We made everywhere else work, this won't be any different." He remembers Daryl stalking the halls of the prison, aimless, like he was waiting for someone to come shackle his feet when he was sleeping. It wasn't 'til he was riding out with Michonne, hunting for the Governor, bringing back boar for his people that he could stand in one place.

When Daryl still won’t look at him, Rick reaches over and puts his hand on Daryl’s shoulder, gently pressing down in reassurance and in a bid to get Daryl to open his eyes. His hand moves with every rise and fall of Daryl’s breath, waiting for the familiar give in Daryl's muscles. Feeling bolder than he usually does, Rick reaches up until he’s pressing against skin, gliding through long strands of hair. It’s not until Daryl presses into the contact that he lets his hand travel further up until his thumb comes to rest behind Daryl’s ear.

The touch is more intimate than they’ve allowed themselves to be before. Rick takes his time, follows the curve behind Daryl's ear before running his thumb across Daryl's cheek. Physically, Daryl’s unmarred, Rick personally saw to that, but mentally, Rick reckons he's still stuck somewhere on the path back to Alexandria; one ear listening out for an ambush that never came. He sees it in the tension in Daryl's neck, the flex in his triceps. Rick wants to bring Daryl back from the road, dust off every memory of being trapped inside the car until Daryl’s settled in the present before taking this deeper; because even though Rick's been craving this, he wants to know that Daryl is with him.

"Hey," Rick finds himself saying when Daryl still won’t look at him. "You're back," he soothes, right hand settling itself on Daryl’s knee. It should be strange, touching Daryl like this, but they ease themselves into it. "You’re back and that’s what matters." They're familiar words, often repeated; a phrase to lure themselves back from the darkness. It's odd to find the roles reversed, to be the one holding the beacon when he's used to walking blind.

_That's right_ , Rick wants to say, _come back to me, come home_. Instead, he rests his head against Daryl’s forehead and breathes with him. Watches the rise and fall of Daryl's chest, Daryl's pulse slowly falling into sync with his own. Rick can’t help but find it comforting that they can slip back into their routine, even if there's so much changing between them. He thought it would be different maybe, to cross this line, but it's remarkably the same. He only hopes Daryl can find the same comforts in him.

Rick shifts so that he's resting on his knees and feet but before he can do anything, Daryl moves first, moving his head until his lips connect with Rick's. It's rougher than their kiss next to the pond, less hesitant than Rick expected. Daryl tastes like leaves and a dirt road, like sweat even though he's cleaned himself off after returning. There’s a desperation in the way he tilts his head to give Rick better access to his mouth, an openness that Rick knows doesn’t come easily from him. Rick can't remember if Daryl was always this warm, or so damn willing to be positioned and consumed whole. Rick needs to steady himself, force himself to take this slow. 

There's something frantic in the way Daryl pushes himself into Rick's touch that was missing from before, a dormant need that idled just under the surface like a crocodile until it was ready to snap, leaving Rick hungry for the taste of salted skin, desperate to figure out all the ways they fit together. Daryl sucks in a breath when Rick moves his a hand up Daryl's thigh, flickering his eyes closed as he moves into the touch, inviting Rick to explore, to touch and to take. Oh and Rick wants to, wants to know what it feels like to slide his fingers down Daryl's chest, to feel the warmth of Daryl's skin as he writhers on cotton sheets beneath him.

It's been so long, so god damn long since Rick's been properly satisfied. Having it be Daryl breathing against him, offering himself without a shred of hesitation makes Rick's skin tingle, like it's shrinking in on itself and he wants Daryl to scratch him open, to release the pressure that's building inside him until he can forget about Peter, forget about anything but the smell and taste of Daryl.

It's not exactly decency that has Rick pulling back, but the space is enough to jump start his brain until he's thinking clearly. Daryl's eyes are saucer wide, startled and darkened with his own need. It's then that Rick remembers that Daryl practically didn't make it back today and doesn't want to push this when Daryl's mind is already spinning a hundred miles a minute. "This," Rick says, kissing Daryl lightly before straightening his spine, "is what matters." It's a muted echo of a point Rick hopes got across. Daryl nods, body moving back until he's slumped against the wall again. There's a calm to him that was missing from before and Rick feels it, too. 

“C’mon,” Rick says, pushing himself up by his legs. He offers a hand to Daryl, “you need sleep and if you don’t, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no excuse for the delay of this chapter. I've been afforded multiple opportunities to travel this summer and I had to jump on them. As much as I tried to write in my spare time, I was too busy with drawing and writing in my journal. I humbly apologize and hope someone out there still wants to read the conclusion of this story.

**Author's Note:**

> Rick and Daryl have always held a special place in my heart but this is the first time I started thinking about shipping them (thanks to the insistent pestering of a friend). Getting them down on paper was challenging, but I’m offering this up regardless. Do what you will with it, but I hope someone out there enjoys it enough to hope to see it continued. The rating will most certainly go up as this continue, so please read future warnings if you're not interested in reading about men being with other men. This is the first time I'm posting a multichapter fic without having it written beforehand and I'm itching to hold back even as I write this. Be kind to me!


End file.
